THE  CRIME  OF 
SYLVESTRE    BONNARD 


THE  CRIME  OF 
SYLVESTRE  BONNARD 


BY 

ANATOLE   FRANCE 

A   TRANSLATION    BY 

LAFCADIO  HEARN 


NEW   YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY 
1922 


Copyright,  1890, 
BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS 

Copyright,  1918. 
BY  MRS.  LAFCADIO  HEARN 


PRINTED  m  u.  s.  A. 


College 
Library 


INTRODUCTION 


HAT  excellent  French  critic,  Julei 
Lemaltre,  observes :  "  Let  us  love 
the  books  which  please  us  and  cease 
to  trouble  ourselves  about  classi- 
fications and  schools  of  literature." 
This  generous  exhortation  seems  especially  ap- 
propriate in  the  case  of  Anatole  France.  The 
author  of  "  Le  Crime  de  Sylvestre  Bonnard  "  is  not 
classifiable, — though  it  would  be  difficult  to  name 
any  other  modern  French  writer  by  whom  the 
finer  emotions  have  been  touched  with  equal 
delicacy  and  sympathetic  exquisiteness. 

If  by  Realism  we  mean  Truth,  which  alone  gives 
value  to  any  study  of  human  nature,  we  have  in 
Anatole  France  a  very  dainty  realist  ; — if  by  Roman- 
ticism we  understand  that  unconscious  tendency  of 
the  artist  to  elevate  truth  itself  beyond  the  range  of 
the  familiar,  and  into  the  emotional  realm  of  aspira- 
tion, then  Anatole  France  is  at  times  a  romantic- 
And,  nevertheless,  as  a  literary  figure  he  stands 
alone  ;  neither  by  his  distinctly  Parisian  refinement 


fli  INTRODUCTION 

of  method,  nor  yet  by  any  definite  characteristic  ol 
style,  can  he  be  successfully  attached  to  any  special 
group  of  writers.  He  is  essentially  of  Paris,  indeed  ; 
— his  literary  training  could  have  been  acquired  in 
no  other  atmosphere  :  his  light  grace  of  emotional 
analysis,  his  artistic  epicureanism,  the  vividness  and 
quickness  of  his  sensations,  are  French  as  his  name. 
But  he  has  followed  no  school-traditions ;  and  the 
charm  of  his  art,  at  once  so  impersonal  and  sym- 
pathetic, is  wholly  his  own.  How  marvellously  well 
the  author  has  succeeded  in  disguising  himself ! 
It  is  extremely  difficult  to  believe  that  the  diary 
of  Sylvestre  Bonnard  could  have  been  written  by 
a  younger  man  ;  yet  the  delightful  octogenarian  is 
certainly  a  young  man's  dream. 

M.  Anatole  France  belongs  to  a  period  of  change, 
— a  period  in  which  a  new  science  and  a  new  philo- 
sophy have  transfigured  the  world  of  ideas  with 
unprecedented  suddenness.  All  the  arts  have  been 
more  or  less  influenced  by  new  modes  of  thought, — 
reflecting  the  exaggerated  materialism  of  an  era  of 
transition.  The  reaction  is  now  setting  in  ; — the 
creative  work  of  fine  minds  already  reveals  that  the 
Art  of  the  Future  must  be  that  which  appeals  to 
the  higher  emotions  alone.  Material  Nature  has 
already  begun  to  lure  less,  and  human  nature  to 
gladden  more  ; — the  knowledge  of  Spiritual  Evolu- 
tion iollows  luminously  upon  our  recognition  of 


INTRODUCTION  r'i 

Physical  Evolution  ; — and  the  horizon  of  human 
fellowship  expands  for  us  with  each  fresh  acquisition 
of  knowledge, — as  the  sky-circle  expands  to  those  who 
climb  a  height.  The  works  of  fiction  that  will  live 
are  not  the  creations  of  men  who  have  blasphemed 
the  human  heart,  but  of  men  who,  like  Anatole 
France,  have  risen  above  the  literary  tendencies 
of  their  generation, — never  doubting  humanity, 
and  keeping  their  pages  irreproachably  pure.  In 
the  art  of  Anatole  France  there  is  no  sensuous- 
ness  :  his  study  is  altogether  of  the  nobler  emo- 
tions. What  the  pessimistic  coarseness  of  self-called 
"  Naturalism  "  has  proven  itself  totally  unable  to 
feel,  he  paints  for  us  truthfully,  simply,  and  touch- 
ingly, — the  charm  of  age,  in  all  its  gentleness, 
lovableness,  and  indulgent  wisdom.  The  dear  old 
man  who  talks  about  his  books  to  his  cat,  who  has 
remained  for  fifty  years  true  to  the  memory  of 
the  girl  he  could  not  win,  and  who,  in  spite  of  his 
world-wide  reputation  for  scholarship,  finds  him- 
self so  totally  helpless  in  all  business  matters,  and 
so  completely  at  the  mercy  of  his  own  generous 
impulses, — may  be,  indeed,  as  the  most  detestable 
Mademoiselle  Prefere  observes,  "  a  child  "  ;  but  his 
childishness  is  only  the  delightful  freshness  of  a  pure 
and  simple  heart  which  could  never  become  aged. 
His  artless  surprise  at  the  malevolence  of  evil  minds, 
his  tolerations  of  juvenile  impertinence,  his  beautiful 


nil  INTRODUCTION 

comprehension  of  the  value  of  life  and  the  sweet- 
ness of  youth,  his  self-disparagements  and  delightful 
compunctions  of  conscience,  his  absolute  unselfish- 
ness and  incapacity  to  nourish  a  resentment,  his 
fine  gentle  irony  which  never  wounds  and  always 
amuses  :  these,  and  many  other  traits,  combine  to 
make  him  one  of  the  most  intensely  living  figures 
created  in  modern  French  literature.  It  is  quite 
impossible  to  imagine  him  as  unreal ;  and,  indeed, 
we  feel  to  him  as  to  some  old  friend  unexpectedly 
met  with  after  years  of  absence,  whose  face  and 
voice  are  perfectly  familiar,  but  whose  name  will 
not  be  remembered  until  he  repeats  it  himself.  We 
might  even  imagine  ourselves  justified  in  doubting 
the  statement  of  M.  Lemaitre  that  Anatole  France 
was  not  an  old  bachelor,  but  a  comparatively  young 
man,  and  a  married  man,  when  he  imagined  Syl- 
vestre  Bonnard  ; — we  might,  in  short,  refuse  to 
believe  the  book  not  strictly  autobiographical, — 
but  for  the  reflection  that  its  other  personages 
live  with  the  same  vividness  for  us  as  does  the 
Member  of  the  Institute.  Therese,  the  grim  old 
housekeeper,  so  simple  and  faithful ;  Madame 
and  Monsieur  de  Gabry,  those  delightful  friends ; 
the  glorious,  brutal,  heroic  Uncle  Victor ;  the 
perfectly  lovable  Jeanne  :  these  figures  are  not  lesi 
lym pathetic  in  their  several  roles. 

But  it  is  not  because  M.  Anatole  France  has  rare 


INTRODUCTION  U 

power  to  create  original  characters,  or  to  reflect 
for  us  something  of  the  more  recondite  literary  life 
of  Paris,  that  his  charming  story  will  live.  It  if 
because  of  his  far  rarer  power  to  deal  with  what 
is  older  than  any  art,  and  withal  more  young,  and 
incomparably  more  precious  :  the  beauty  of  what  ii 
beautiful  in  human  emotion.  And  that  writer  who 
touches  the  spring  of  generous  tears  by  some  simple 
story  of  gratitude,  of  natural  kindness,  of  gentle 
self-sacrifice,  is  surely  more  entitled  to  our  love  than 
the  sculptor  who  shapes  for  us  a  dream  of  merely 
animal  grace,  or  the  painter  who  images  for  us,  how- 
ever richly,  the  young  bloom  of  that  form  which  is 

only  the  husk  of  Being  1 

LAFCADIO  HEARN. 


CONTENTS 


PART  I 

PAOfc 

THE  LOG  ...  i 


PART  II 

THE  DAUGHTER  OF  CLEMENTINE                     .  89 

THE  FAIRY  P~ri$    'Xr^o,      .....  91 

THE  LITTLI  SAINT-GEORGE    .                                       .  116 


PART  I 
THE    LOG 


THE   CRIME   OF 

SYLVESTRE    BONNARD 


PART  I— THE  LOG 

December  24,  1849. 

HAD  put  on  my  slippers  and  my 
dressing-gown.  I  wiped  away  a  tear 
with  which  the  north  wind  blowing 
over  the  quay  had  obscured  my 
vision.  A  bright  fire  was  leaping 
in  the  chimney  of  my  study.  Ice-crystals, 
shaped  like  fern-leaves,  were  sprouting  over  the 
window-panes,  and  concealed  from  me  the  Seine 
with  its  bridges  and  the  Louvre  of  the  Valois. 

I  drew  up  my  easy-chair  to  the  hearth,  and  my 
tablt-volantt,  and  took  up  so  much  of  my  place  by 
the  fire  as  Hamilcar  deigned  to  allow  me.  Hamilcar 
was  lying  in  front  of  the  andirons,  curled  up  on  a 
cushion,  with  his  nose  between  his  paws.  His  thick 
fine  fur  rose  and  fell  with  his  regular  breathing. 
At  my  coming,  he  slowly  slipped  a  glance  of  his 
agate  eyes  at  me  from  between  his  half-opened 
lids,  which  he  closed  again  almost  at  once,  thinking 
tt»  himself,  "  It  is  nothing  ;  it  is  only  my  friend." 

I 


4  THE  CRIME  OF 

"  Hamilcar,"  I  said  to  him,  as  I  stretched  my 
legs — "  Hamilcar,  somnolent  Prince  of  the  City 
of  Books — thou  guardian  nocturnal !  Like  that 
Divine  Cat  who  combated  the  impious  in  Heliopolis 
— in  the  night  of  the  great  combat — thou  dost 
defend  from  vile  nibblers  those  books  which  the 
old  savant  acquired  at  the  cost  of  his  slender  savings 
and  indefatigable  zeal.  Sleep,  Hamilcar,  softly  as 
a  sultana,  in  this  library,  that  shelters  thy  military 
virtues  ;  for  verily  in  thy  person  are  united  the 
formidable  aspect  of  a  Tartar  warrior  and  the 
slumbrous  grace  of  a  woman  of  the  Orient.  Sleep, 
thou  heroic  and  voluptuous  Hamilcar,  while  await- 
ing that  moonlight  hour  in  which  the  mice  will 
come  forth  to  dance  before  the  *  Acta  Sanctorum  ' 
of  the  learned  Bollandists  !  " 

The  beginning  of  this  discourse  pleased  Hamilcar, 
who  accompanied  it  with  a  throat-sound  like  the 
long  of  a  kettle  on  the  fire.  But  as  my  voice  waxed 
louder,  Hamilcar  notified  me  by  lowering  his  ears 
and  by  wrinkling  the  striped  skin  of  his  brow  that 
it  was  bad  taste  on  my  part  so  to  declaim. 

"  This  old-book  man,"  evidently  thought 
Hamilcar,  "  talks  to  no  purpose  at  all,  while  our 
housekeeper  never  utters  a  word  which  is  not 
full  of  good  sense,  full  of  significance — containing 
either  the  announcement  of  a  meal  or  the  promise 
of  a  whipping.  One  knows  what  she  says.  But  this 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  5 

old  man  puts  together  a  lot  of  sounds  signifying 
nothing." 

So  thought  Hamilcar  to  himself.  Leaving  him 
to  his  reflections,  I  opened  a  book,  which  I  began 
to  read  with  interest ;  for  it  was  a  catalogue  oi 
manuscripts.  I  do  not  know  any  reading  more 
easy,  more  fascinating,  more  delightful  than  that 
of  a  catalogue.  The  one  which  I  was  reading — 
edited  in  1824  by  Mr.  Thompson,  librarian  to  Sir 
Thomas  Raleigh — sins,  it  is  true,  by  excess  of 
brevity,  and  does  not  offer  that  character  of  exacti- 
tude which  the  archivists  of  my  own  generation 
were  the  first  to  introduce  into  works  upon  diplo- 
matics and  paleography.  It  leaves  a  good  deal  to 
be  desired  and  to  be  divined.  This  is  perhaps  why 
I  find  myself  aware,  while  reading  it,  of  a  state  of 
mind  which  in  a  nature  more  imaginative  than  mine 
might  be  called  reverie.  I  had  allowed  myself  to 
drift  away  thus  gently  upon  the  current  of  my 
thoughts,  when  my  housekeeper  announced,  in  a 
tone  of  ill-humour,  that  Monsieur  Coccoz  desired 
to  speak  -vith  me. 

In  fact,  some  one  had  slipped  into  the  library  after 
her.  He  was  a  little  man — a  poor  little  man  of  puny 
appearance,  wearing  a  thin  jacket.  He  approached 
me  with  a  number  of  little  bows  and  smiles.  But 
he  was  very  pale,  and,  although  still  young  and  alert, 
he  looked  ill.  I  thought,  as  I  looked  at  him,  of  a 


6  THE  CRIME  OF 

wounded  squirrel.  He  carried  under  his  arm  a  green 
toilette,  which  he  put  upon  a  chair  ;  then  unfasten- 
ing the  four  corners  of  the  toilette^  he  uncovered  a 
heap  of  little  yellow  books. 

"  Monsieur,"  he  then  said  to  me,  "  I  have  not  the 
honour  to  be  known  to  you.  I  am  a  book-agent, 
Monsieur.  I  represent  the  leading  houses  of  the 
capital,  and  in  the  hope  that  you  will  kindly  honour 
me  with  your  confidence,  I  take  the  liberty  to  offer 
you  a  few  novelties." 

Kind  gods  !  just  gods !  such  novelties  as  the 
homunculus  Coccoz  showed  me  !  The  first  volume 
that  he  put  in  my  hand  was  "  L'Histoire  de  la 
Tour  de  Nesle,"  with  the  amours  of  Marguerite 
de  Bourgogne  and  the  Captain  Buridan. 

"  It  is  a  historical  book,"  he  said  to  me,  with  a 
smile — "  a  book  of  real  histoiy." 

"  In  that  case,"  I  replied,  "  it  must  be  very 
tiresome  ;  for  all  the  historical  books  which  con- 
tain no  lies  are  extremely  tedious.  I  write  some 
authentic  ones  myself ;  and  if  you  were  unlucky 
enough  to  carry  a  copy  of  any  of  them  from  door  to 
door  you  would  run  the  risk  of  keeping  it  all  your 
life  in  that  green  baize  of  yours,  without  ever  finding 
even  a  cook  foolish  enough  to  buy  it  from  you." 

"  Certainly  Monsieur,"  the  little  man  answered, 
out  of  pure  good-nature. 

And,  all  smiling  again,  he  offered  me  the  "  Amours 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  7 

d'Hekrfse  et  d'Abeilard  "  ;  but  I  made  him  under- 
stand that,  at  my  age,  I  had  no  use  for  love-stories. 

Still  smiling,  he  proposed  me  the  "  Regie  des  Jeux 
de  la  Societe  " — piquet,  bezique,  ecarte,  whist,  dice, 
draughts,  and  chess. 

"  Alas  !  "  I  said  to  him,  "  if  you  want  to  make  me 
remember  the  rules  of  bezique,  give  me  back  my  old 
friend  Bignan,  with  whom  I  used  to  play  cards  every 
evening  before  the  Five  Academies  solemnly  escorted 
him  to  the  cemetery ;  or  else  bring  down  to  the  frivo- 
lous level  of  human  amusements  the  grave  intelli- 
gence of  Hamilcar,  whom  you  see  on  that  cushion, 
for  he  is  the  sole  companion  of  my  evenings." 

The  little  man's  smile  became  vague  and  uneasy. 

"  Here,"  he  said,  "  is  a  new  collection  of  society 
amusements — jokes  and  puns — with  a  recipe  for 
changing  a  red  rose  to  a  white  rose." 

I  told  him  that  I  had  fallen  out  with  roses  for  a 
long  time,  and  that,  as  to  jokes,  I  was  satisfied  with 
those  which  I  unconsciously  permitted  myself  to 
make  in  the  course  of  my  scientific  labours. 

The  homunculus  offered  me  his  last  book,  with 
his  last  smile.  He  said  to  me  : 

"  Here  is  the  *  Clef  des  Songes ' — the  *  Key  of 
Dreams ' — with  the  explanation  of  any  dreams 
that  anybody  can  have  ;  dreams  of  gold,  dreams 
of  robbers,  dreams  of  death,  dreams  of  falling  from 
the  top  of  a  tower.  ...  It  is  exhaustive." 


8  THE  CRIME  OF 

I  had  taken  hold  of  the  tongs,  and,  brandishing 
them  energetically,  I  replied  to  my  commercial 
visitor  : 

"  Yes,  my  friend ;  but  those  dreams  and  a 
thousand  others,  joyous  or  tragic,  are  all  summed 
up  in  one — the  Dream  of  Life  ;  is  your  little  yellow 
book  able  to  give  me  the  key  to  that  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Monsieur,"  answered  the  homunculus ; 
"  the  book  is  complete,  and  is  not  dear — one  franc 
twenty-five  centimes,  Monsieur." 

I  called  my  housekeeper — for  there  is  no  bell  in 
my  room — and  said  to  her  : 

"  Therese,  Monsieur  Coccoz — whom  I  am  going 
to  ask  you  to  show  out — has  a  book  here  which 
might  interest  you :  the  "  Key  of  Dreams.51 
I  shall  be  very  glad  to  buy  it  for  you." 

My  housekeeper  responded  : 

**  Monsieur,  when  one  has  not  even  time  to  dreara 
aw^ke,  one  has  still  less  time  to  dream  asleep. 
Thank  God,  my  days  are  just  enough  for  my  work 
and  my  work  for  my  days,  and  I  am  able  to  say  every 
night,  *  Lord,  bless  Thou  the  rest  which  I  am  going 
to  take.'  I  never  dream,  either  on  my  feet  or  in 
bed  ;  and  I  never  mistake  my  eider-down  coverlet 
for  a  devil,  as  my  cousin  did  ;  and,  if  you  will  allow 
me  to  give  my  opinion  about  it,  I  think  you  have 
books  enough  here  now.  Monsieur  has  thousands 
and  thousands  of  books,  which  simply  turn  hii 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  9 

head ;  and  as  for  me,  I  have  just  two,  which 
are  quite  enough  for  all  my  wants  and  purposes 
— my  Catholic  prayer-book  and  my  *  Cuisiniere 
Bourgeoise.'  " 

And  with  these  words  my  housekeeper  helped  the 
little  man  to  fasten  up  his  stock  again  within  the 
green  toilette. 

The  homunculus  Coccoz  had  ceased  to  smile. 
His  relaxed  features  took  such  an  expression  of 
suffering  that  I  felt  sorry  to  have  made  fun  of  so 
unhappy  a  man.  I  called  him  back,  and  told  him 
that  I  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  copy  of  the  "  His- 
toire  d'Estelle  et  de  Nemorin,"  which  he  had  among 
his  books ;  that  I  was  very  fond  of  shepherds  and 
shepherdesses,  and  that  I  would  be  quite  willing  to 
purchase,  at  a  reasonable  price,  the  story  of  those 
two  perfect  lovers. 

"  I  will  sell  you  that  book  for  one  franc  twenty- 
five  centimes,  Monsieur,"  replied  Coccoz,  whose 
face  at  once  beamed  with  joy.  "  It  is  historical ; 
and  you  will  be  pleased  with  it.  I  know  now  just 
what  suits  you.  I  see  that  you  are  a  connoisseur. 
To-morrow  I  will  bring  you  the  "  Crimes  des 
Papes."  It  is  a  good  book.  I  will  bring  you  the 
edition  £  amateur^  with  coloured  plates." 

I  begged  him  not  to  do  anything  of  the  sort,  and 
sent  him  away  happy.  When  the  green  toilette 
and  the  agent  had  disappeared  in  the  shadow  of  the 


io  THE  CRIME  OF 

corridor  I  asked  my  housekeeper  whence  this  little 
man  had  dropped  upon  us. 

"  Dropped  is  the  word,"  she  answered  ;  "  he 
dropped  on  us  from  the  roof,  Monsieur,  where  he 
lives  with  his  wife." 

"  You  say  he  has  a  wife,  Therese  ?  That  is 
marvellous  !  women  are  very  strange  creatures  ! 
This  one  must  be  a  very  unfortunate  little 
woman." 

"  I  don't  really  know  what  she  is,"  answered 
Therese  ;  "  but  every  morning  I  see  her  trailing  a 
silk  dress  covered  with  grease-spots  over  the  stairs. 
She  makes  soft  eyes  at  people.  And,  in  the  name  of 
common  sense  !  does  it  become  a  woman  that  has 
been  received  here  out  of  charity  to  make  eyes  and 
to  wear  dresses  like  that  ?  For  they  allowed  the 
couple  to  occupy  the  attic  during  the  time  the  roof 
was  being  repaired,  in  consideration  of  the  fact  that 
the  husband  is  sick  and  the  wife  in  an  interesting 
condition.  The  concierge  even  says  that  the  pains 
came  on  her  this  morning,  and  that  she  is  now 
confined.  They  must  have  been  very  badly  off  for 
a  child  !  " 

"  Therese,"  I  replied,  "  they  had  no  need  of  a 
child,  doubtless.  But  Nature  had  decided  they 
should  bring  one  into  the  world  ;  Nature  made 
them  fall  into  her  snare.  One  must  have  exceptional 
prudence  to  defeat  Nature's  schemes.  Let  us  be 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  it 

lorry  for  them,  and  not  blame  them  !  As  for  silk 
dresses,  there  is  no  young  woman  who  does  not  like 
them.  The  daughters  of  Eve  adore  adornment. 
You  yourself,  Therese — who  are  so  serious  and 
sensible — what  a  fuss  you  make  when  you  have 
no  white  apron  to  wait  at  table  in  !  But,  tell 
me,  have  they  got  everything  necessary  in  their 
attic  ?  " 

"  How  could  they  have  it,  Monsieur  ?  "  my 
housekeeper  made  answer.  "  The  husband,  whom 
you  have  just  seen,  used  to  be  a  jewellery-peddler 
— at  least,  so  the  concierge  tells  me — and  nobody 
knows  why  he  stopped  selling  watches.  You  have 
just  seen  that  he  is  now  selling  almanacs.  That  is 
no  way  to  make  an  honest  living,  and  I  never  will 
believe  that  God's  blessing  can  come  to  an  almanac- 
peddler.  Between  ourselves,  the  wife  looks  to  me 
for  all  the  world  like  a  good-for-nothing — a  Marie- 
couche-toi-la.  I  think  she  would  be  just  as  capable 
of  bringing  up  a  child  as  I  should  be  of  playing  the 
guitar.  Nobody  seems  to  know  where  they  came 
from  ;  but  I  am  sure  they  must  have  come  by 
Misery's  coach  from  the  country  of  Sans-souci. 

"  Wherever  they  have  come  from,  Therese,  they 
are  unfortunate  ;  and  their  attic  is  cold." 

"  Pardi  !  — the  roof  is  broken  in  several  places, 
and  the  rain  comes  through  in  streams.  They 
have  neither  furniture  nor  clothing.  I  don't 


I*  THE  CRIME  OF 

think  cabinet-makers  and  weavers  work  much  for 
Christians  of  that  sect ! ' 

"  That  is  very  sad,  Therese  ;  a  Christian  woman 
much  less  well  provided  for  than  this  pagan,  Hamil- 
car  here  ! — what  does  she  have  to  say  ?  " 

"  Monsieur,  I  never  speak  to  those  people  ;  I 
don't  know  what  she  says  or  what  she  sings.  But 
the  sings  all  day  long  ;  I  hear  her  from  the  stair- 
way whenever  I  am  going  out  or  coming  in." 

"  Well !  the  heir  of  the  Coccoz  family  will  be 
able  to  say,  like  the  Egg  in  the  village  riddle  :  '  Ma 
mhe  me  fit  en  chantant.'  *  The  like  happened  in 
the  case  of  Henry  IV.  When  Jeanne  d'Albret 
felt  herself  about  to  be  confined  she  began  to  sing 
in  old  Bearnaise  canticle  : 

•*  *  Notre-Dame  da  bout  da  pont, 
Venez  a  mon  aide  en  cette  heart  I 
Priez  le  Dieu  du  ciel 
Qu'il  me  delivre  vite, 
Qa'il  me  donne  an  garcon ! ' 

"  It  is  certainly  unreasonable  to  bring  little 
unfortunates  into  the  world.  But  the  thing  is 
done  every  day,  my  dear  Therese,  and  all  the  philo- 
sophers on  earth  will  never  be  able  to  reform  the 
silly  custom.  Madame  Coccoz  has  followed  it,  and 
jhe  sings.  That  is  creditable  at  all  events  !  But, 

•  "  My  mother  sang  when  she  brought  me  into  the  world." 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  13 

tell  me,  Therese,  have  you  not  put  on  the  soup  to 
boil  to-day  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Monsieur  ;  and  it  is  time  for  me  to  go  and 
skim  it." 

"  Good  !  but  don't  forget,  Therese,  to  take  a 
good  bowl  of  soup  out  of  the  pot  and  carry  it  to 
Madame  Coccoz,  our  attic  neighbour." 

My  housekeeper  was  on  the  point  of  leaving  the 
room  when  1  added,  just  in  time  : 

"  Therese,  before  you  do  anything  else,  please 
call  your  friend  the  porter,  and  tell  him  to  take  a 
good  bundle  of  wood  out  of  our  stock  and  carry  it 
tip  to  the  attic  of  those  Coccoz  folks.  See,  above 
all,  that  he  puts  a  first-class  log  in  the  lot  —  a  real 
Christmas  log.  As  for  the  homunculus,  if  he  comes 
back  again,  do  not  allow  either  himself  or  any  of  his 
yellow  books  to  come  in  here." 

Having  taken  all  these  little  precautions  with  the 
refined  egotism  of  an  old  bachelor,  I  returned  to 
my  catalogue  again. 

With  what  surprise,  with  what  emotion,  with  what 
anxiety  did  I  therein  discover  the  following  mention, 
which  I  cannot  even  now  copy  without  feeling  my 
hand  tremble  : 


M  LA  L&GENDE  DORSE  DE  JACQUES  DE  GENES 

df  Voragine)  ;  —  traduction  franfaise,  petit  in-^. 
**  This  MS.  of  the  fourteenth  century  contains,  besides  the  tolerably 
complete  translation  of  the  celebrated  work  of  Jacques  de  Voragine, 


14  THE  CRIME  OF 

I.  The  Legends  of  Saints  Ferre'ol,  Ferrution,  Germain,  Vincent,  and 
Droctoveus  ;  2.  A  poem  On  the  Miraculous  Burial  of  Monsieur  Saint- 
Germain  of  Auxerre.  This  translation,  as  well  as  the  legends  and  the 
poem,  are  due  to  the  Clerk  Alexander. 

"  This  MS.  is  written  upon  vellum.  It  contains  a  great  number  of 
illuminated  letters,  and  two  finely  executed  miniatures,  in  a  rather 
imperfect  state  of  preservation  :— one  represents  the  Purification  of 
the  Virgin,  and  the  other  the  Coronation  of  Proserpine." 

What  a  discovery  !  Perspiration  moistened  my 
forehead,  and  a  veil  seemed  to  come  before  my  eyes. 
I  trembled  ;  I  flushed  ;  and,  without  being  able  to 
speak,  I  felt  a  sudden  impulse  to  cry  out  at  the  top 
of  my  voice. 

What  a  treasure  !  For  more  than  forty  years  I 
had  been  making  a  special  study  of  the  history  of 
Christian  Gaul,  and  particularly  of  that  glorious 
Abbey  of  Saint-Germain-des-Pres,  whence  issued 
forth  those  King-Monks  who  founded  our  national 
dynasty.  Now,  despite  the  culpable  insufficiency 
of  the  description  given,  it  was  evident  to  me  that 
the  MS.  of  the  Clerk  Alexander  must  have  come 
from  the  great  Abbey.  Everything  proved  this 
fact.  All  the  legends  added  by  the  translator  re- 
lated to  the  pious  foundation  of  the  Abbey  by  King 
Childebert.  Then  the  legend  of  Saint-Droctoveus 
was  particularly  significant ;  being  the  legend  of 
the  first  abbot  of  my  dear  Abbey.  The  poem  in 
French  verse  on  the  burial  of  Saint-Germain 
led  me  actually  into  the  nave  of  that  venerable 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  15 

basilica  which  was  the  umbilicus  of  Christian 
Gaul. 

The  '*  Golden  Legend  "  ia  in  itself  a  vast  and 
gracious  work.  Jacques  de  Voragine,  Definitor  of 
the  Order  of  Saint-Dominic,  and  Archbishop  of 
Genoa,  collected  in  the  thirteenth  century  the 
various  legends  of  Catholic  saints,  and  formed  so 
rich  a  compilation  that  from  all  the  monasteries 
and  castles  of  the  time  there  arose  the  cry  :  "  This 
is  the  *  Golden  Legend.'  "  The  "  Legende  Doree  " 
was  especially  opulent  in  Roman  hagiography. 
Edited  by  an  Italian  monk,  it  reveals  its  best  merits 
in  the  treatment  of  matters  relating  to  the  terrestrial 
domains  of  Saint  Peter.  Voragine  can  only  perceive 
the  greater  saints  of  the  Occident  as  through  a  cold 
mist.  For  this  reason  the  Aquitanian  and  Saxon 
translators  of  the  good  legend-writer  were  careful 
to  add  to  his  recital  the  lives  of  their  own  national 
saints. 

I  have  read  and  collated  a  great  many  manuscripts 
of  the  "  Golden  Legend."  I  know  all  those  de- 
scribed by  my  learned  colleague,  M.  Paulin  Paris, 
in  his  handsome  catalogue  of  the  MSS.  of  the 
Bibliotheque  du  Roi.  There  were  two  among 
them  which  especially  drew  my  attention.  One  is 
of  the  fourteenth  century,  and  contains  a  transla- 
tion by  Jean  Belet ;  the  other,  younger  by  a  century, 
presents  the  version  of  Jacques  Vignay.  Both 


16  THE  CRIME  OF 

come  from  the  Colbert  collection,  and  were  placed 
on  the  shelves  of  that  glorious  Colbertine  library 
by  the  Librarian  Baluze — whose  name  I  can  never 
pronounce  without  uncovering  my  head  ;  for  even 
in  the  century  of  the  giants  of  erudition,  Baluze 
astounds  by  his  greatness.  I  know  also  a  very 
curious  codex  in  the  Bigot  collection ;  I  know 
jeventy-four  printed  editions  of  the  work,  com- 
mencing with  the  venerable  ancestor  of  all — the 
Gothic  of  Strasburg,  begun  in  1471,  and  finished 
in  1475.  But  no  one  of  those  MSS.,  no  one  of  those 
editions,  contains  the  legends  of  Saints  Ferreol, 
Ferrution,  Germain,  Vincent,  and  Droctoveus ;  no 
one  bears  the  name  of  the  Clerk  Alexander  ;  no  one, 
in  fine,  came  from  the  Abbey  of  Saint-Germain-des- 
Pres.  Compared  with  the  MS.  described  by  Mr. 
Thompson,  they  are  only  as  straw  to  gold.  I  have 
seen  with  my  eyes,  I  have  touched  with  my  fingers, 
an  incontrovertible  testimony  to  the  existence  of 
this  document.  But  the  document  itself — what 
has  become  of  it  ?  Sir  Thomas  Raleigh  went  to 
end  his  days  by  the  shores  of  the  Lake  of  Como, 
whither  he  carried  with  him  a  part  of  his  literary 
wealth.  Where  did  the  books  go  after  the  death 
of  that  aristocratic  collector  ?  Where  could  the 
manuscript  of  the  Clerk  Alexander  have  gone  ? 

"  And  why,"  I  asked  my«elf,  "  why  should  I  have 
learned  that  this  precious  book  exists,  if  I  am  never 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  17 

to  possess  it — never  even  to  see  it  ?  I  would  go  to 
seek  it  in  the  burning  heart  of  Africa,  or  in  the  icy 
regions  of  the  Pole  if  I  knew  it  were  there.  But 
I  do  not  know  where  it  is.  I  do  not  know  if  it  be 
guarded  in  a  triple-locked  iron  case  by  some  jealous 
bibliomaniac.  I  do  not  know  if  it  be  growing 
mouldy  in  the  attic  of  some  ignoramus.  I  shudder 
at  the  thought  that  perhaps  its  torn-out  leaves  may 
have  been  used  to  cover  the  pickle- jars  of  some 
housekeeper." 

A ]u gust  30,  1850. 

THE  heavy  heat  compelled  me  to  walk  slowly.  1 
kept  close  to  the  walls  of  the  north  quays ;  and,  in 
the  lukewarm  shade,  the  shops  of  the  dealers  ip  old 
books,  engravings,  and  antiquated  furniture  drew 
my  eyes  and  appealed  to  my  fancy.  Rummaging 
and  idling  among  these,  I  hastily  enjoyed  some 
verses  spiritedly  thrown  off  by  a  poet  of  the  Pleiad. 
I  examined  an  elegant  Masquerade  by  Watteau. 
I  felt,  with  my  eye,  the  weight  of  a  two-handed 
sword,  a  steel  gorgeriny  a  morion.  What  a  thick 
helmet  !  What  a  ponderous  breastplate — Seigneur  ! 
A  giant's  garb  ?  No — the  carapace  of  an  insect. 
The  men  of  those  days  were  cuirassed  like  beetles  . 
their  weakness  was  within  them.  To-day,  on  the 
contrary,  our  strength  is  interior,  and  our  armed 
souls  dwell  in  feeble  bodies. 


1 8  THE  CRIME  OF 

.  .  .  Here  is  a  pastel-portrait  of  a  lady  of  the  old 
time — the  face,  vague  like  a  shadow,  smiles ;  and  a 
hand,  gloved  with  an  openwork  mitten,  retains  upon 
her  satiny  knees  a  lap-dog,  with  a  ribbon  about  its 
neck.  That  picture  fills  me  with  a  sort  of  charming 
melancholy.  Let  those  who  have  no  half-effaced 
pastels  in  their  own  hearts  laugh  at  me  !  Like  the 
horse  that  scents  the  stable,  I  hasten  my  pace  as  I 
near  my  lodgings.  There  it  is — that  great  human 
hive,  in  which  I  have  a  cell,  for  the  purpose  of 
therein  distilling  the  somewhat  acrid  honey  of 
erudition.  I  climb  the  stairs  with  slow  effort. 
Only  a  few  steps  more,  and  I  shall  be  at  my  own 
door.  But  I  divine,  rather  than  see,  a  robe  descend- 
ing with  a  sound  of  rustling  silk.  I  stop,  and  press 
myself  against  the  balustrade  to  make  room.  The 
lady  who  is  coming  down  is  bareheaded  ;  she  is 
young  ;  she  sings  ;  her  eyes  and  teeth  gleam  in  the 
shadow,  for  she  laughs  with  lips  and  eyes  at  the 
same  time.  She  is  certainly  a  neighbour,  and  a  very 
familiar  one.  She  holds  in  her  arms  a  pretty  child, 
a  little  boy — quite  naked,  like  the  son  of  a  goddess ; 
he  has  a  medal  hung  round  his  neck  by  a  little  silver 
chain.  I  see  him  sucking  his  thumbs  and  looking 
at  me  with  those  big  eyes  so  newly  opened  on 
this  old  universe.  The  mother  simultaneously  looks 
at  me  in  a  sly,  mysterious  way  ;  she  stops — I  think 
blushes  a  little — and  holds  out  the  ImJe  creature 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  19 

to  me.  The  baby  has  a  pretty  wrinkle  between 
wrist  and  arm,  a  pretty  wrinkle  about  his  neck, 
and  all  over  him,  from  head  to  foot,  the  daintiest 
dimples  laugh  in  his  rosy  flesh. 

The  mamma  shows  him  to  me  with  pride. 

"  Monsieur,"  she  says,  "  don't  you  think  he  is  very 
pretty — my  little  boy  ?  " 

She  takes  one  tiny  hand,  lifts  it  to  the  child's  own 
lips,  and,  drawing  out  the  darling  pink  fingers  again 
towards  me,  says, 

"  Baby,  throw  the  gentleman  a  kiss." 

Then,  folding  the  little  being  in  her  arms,  she 
flees  away  with  the  agility  of  a  cat,  and  is  lost  to 
sight  in  a  corridor  which,  judging  by  the  odour, 
must  lead  to  some  kitchen. 

I  enter  my  own  quarters. 

"  Therese,  who  can  that  young  mother  be  whom 
I  saw  bareheaded  on  the  stairs  just  now,  with  a 
pretty  little  boy  ?  " 

And  Therese  replies  that  it  was  Madame  Coccoz. 

I  stare  up  at  the  ceiling,  as  if  trying  to  obtain  some 
further  illumination.  Therese  then  recalls  to  me 
the  little  book-peddler  who  tried  to  sell  me  almanacs 
last  year,  while  his  wife  was  lying  in. 

"  And  Coccoz  himself  ?  "  I  asked. 

I  was  answered  that  I  would  never  see  him  again. 
The  poor  little  man  had  been  laid  away  under- 
ground, without  my  knowledge,  and,  indeed,  with 


20  THE  CRIME  OF 

the  knowledge  of  very  few  people,  only  a  short  time 
after  the  happy  delivery  of  Madame  Coccoz.  I 
learned  that  his  wife  had  been  able  to  console 
herself  :  I  did  likewise. 

"  But,  Therese,"  I  asked,  "  has  Madame  Coccoz 
got  everything  she  needs  in  that  attic  of  hers  ?  " 

"  You  would  be  a  great  dupe,  Monsieur,"  replied 
my  housekeeper,  "  if  you  should  bother  yourself 
about  that  creature.  They  gave  her  notice  to 
quit  the  attic  when  the  roof  was  repaired.  But  she 
stays  there  yet — in  spite  of  the  proprietor,  the  agent, 
the  concierge,  and  the  bailiffs.  I  think  she  has  be- 
witched every  one  of  them.  She  will  leave  that  attic 
when  she  pleases,  Monsieur  ;  but  she  is  going  to  leave 
in  her  own  carriage.  Let  me  tell  you  that !  " 

Therese  reflected  for  a  moment ;  and  then 
uttered  these  words : 

"  A  pretty  face  is  a  curse  from  Heaven." 

"  Then  I  ought  to  thank  Heaven  for  having 
spared  me  that  curse.  But  here  !  put  my  hat  and 
cane  away.  I  am  going  to  amuse  myself  with  a 
few  pages  of  Moreri.  If  I  can  trust  my  old  fox- 
nose,  we  are  going  to  have  a  nicely  flavoured  pullet 
for  dinner.  Look  after  that  estimable  fowl,  my 
girl,  and  spare  your  neighbours,  so  that  you  and 
your  old  master  may  be  spared  by  them  in  turn.'* 

Having  thus  spoken,  I  proceeded  to  follow  out 
the  tufted  ramifications  of  a  princely  genealogy. 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  xi 

May  7,  1851. 

I  HAVE  passed  the  winter  according  to  the  ideal 
of  the  sages,  in  angello  cum  libello ;  and  now  the 
swallows  of  the  Quai  Malaquais  find  me  on  theil 
return  about  as  when  they  left  me.  He  who  lives 
little,  changes  little  ;  and  it  is  scarcely  living  at 
all  to  use  up  one's  days  over  old  texts. 

Yet  I  feel  myself  to-day  a  little  more  deeply 
impregnated  than  ever  before  with  that  vague 
melancholy  which  life  distils.  The  economy  of  my 
intelligence  (I  dare  scarcely  confess  it  to  myself !) 
has  remained  disturbed  ever  since  that  momentoui 
hour  in  which  the  existence  of  the  manuscript  oi 
the  Clerk  Alexander  was  first  revealed  to  me. 

It  is  strange  that  I  should  have  lost  my  rest 
simply  on  account  of  a  few  old  sheets  of  parchment ; 
but  it  is  unquestionably  true.  The  poor  man  who 
lias  no  desires  possesses  the  greatest  of  riches ; 
nc  possesses  himself.  The  rich  man  who  desires 
something  is  only  a  wretched  slave.  I  am  just 
such  a  slave.  The  sweetest  pleasures — those  of 
converse  with  some  one  of  a  delicate  and  well- 
balanced  mind,  or  dining  out  with  a  friend — are 
insufficient  to  enable  me  to  forget  the  manuscript 
which  I  know  that  I  want,  and  have  been  wanting 
from  the  moment  I  knew  of  its  existence.  I  feel  the 
want  of  it  by  day  and  by  night :  I  feel  the  want 

c 


12  THE  CRIME  OF 

of  it  in  all  my  joys  and  pains ;  I  feel  the  want  of  it 
while  at  work  or  asleep. 

I  recall  my  desires  as  a  child.  How  well  I  can 
now  comprehend  the  intense  wishes  of  my  early 
years ! 

I  can  see  once  more,  with  astonishing  vividness, 
a  certain  doll  which,  when  I  was  eight  years  old, 
used  to  be  displayed  in  the  window  of  an  ugly 
little  shop  of  the  Rue  de  Seine.  I  cannot  tell 
how  it  happened  that  this  doll  attracted  me.  I 
was  very  proud  of  being  a  boy ;  I  despised  little 
girls  ;  and  I  longed  impatiently  for  the  day  (which, 
alas  !  has  come)  when  a  strong  beard  should 
bristle  on  my  chin.  I  played  at  being  a  soldier  ; 
and,  under  the  pretext  of  obtaining  forage  for  my 
rocking-horse,  I  used  to  make  sad  havoc  among  the 
plants  my  poor  mother  delighted  to  keep  on  her 
window-sill.  Manly  amusements  those,  I  should 
say !  And,  nevertheless,  I  was  consumed  with 
longing  for  a  doll.  Characters  like  Hercules  have 
luch  weaknesses  occasionally.  Was  the  one  I  had 
fallen  in  love  with  at  all  beautiful  ?  No.  I  can 
see  her  now.  She  had  a  splotch  of  vermilion  on 
either  cheek,  short  soft  arms,  horrible  wooden 
hands,  and  long  sprawling  legs.  Her  flowered 
petticoat  was  fastened  at  the  waist  with  *wo  pins. 
Even  now  I  can  see  the  black  heads  of  those  two 
pins.  It  was  a  decidedly  vulgar  doll — smelt  of 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  23 

the  faubourg.  I  remember  perfectly  well  that, 
child  as  I  was  then,  before  I  had  put  on  my 
first  pair  of  trousers,  I  was  quite  conscious  in  my 
own  way  that  this  doll  lacked  grace  and  style — 
that  she  was  gross,  that  she  was  coarse.  But  I 
loved  her  in  spite  of  that ;  I  loved  her  just  for  that  • 
I  loved  her  only ;  I  wanted  her.  My  soldiers 
and  my  drums  had  become  as  nothing  in  my  eyes, 
I  ceased  to  stick  sprigs  of  heliotrope  and  veronica 
into  the  mouth  of  my  rocking-horse.  That  doll 
was  all  the  world  to  me.  I  invented  ruses  worthy 
of  a  savage  to  oblige  Virginie,  my  nurse,  to  take 
me  by  the  little  shop  in  the  Rue  de  Seine.  I 
would  press  my  nose  against  the  window  until 
my  nurse  had  to  take  my  arm  and  drag  me  away. 
"  Monsieur  Sylvestre,  it  is  late,  and  your  mamma 
will  scold  you."  Monsieur  Sylvestre  in  those  days 
made  very  little  of  either  scoldings  or  whippings. 
But  his  nurse  lifted  him  up  like  a  feather,  and 
Monsieur  Sylvestre  yielded  to  force.  In  after-years, 
with  age,  he  degenerated,  and  sometimes  yielded 
to  fear.  But  at  that  time  he  used  to  fear  nothing 
I  was  unhappy.  An  unreasoning  but  irresistible 
shame  prevented  me  from  telling  my  mother  about 
the  object  of  my  love.  Thence  all  my  sufferings. 
For  many  days  that  doll,  incessantly  present  in 
fancy,  danced  before  my  eyes,  stared  at  me  fixedly, 
opened  her  arms  to  me,  assuming  in  my  imagination 


14  THE  CRIME  OF 

a  sort  of  life  which  made  her    appear    at    once 
mysterious   and  weird,  and   thereby  all   the  more: 
charming  and  desirable. 

Finally,  one  day — a  day  I  shall  never  forget — myr 
nurse  took  me  to  see  my  uncle,  Captain  Victor,, 
who  had  invited  me  to  lunch.  I  admired  my 
uncle  a  great  deal,  as  much  because  he  had  firedi 
the  last  French  cartridge  at  Waterloo,  as  because  he 
used  to  prepare  with  his  own  hands,  at  my  mother's 
table,  certain  chapons-a-F 'ail,*  which  he  afterwards 
put  into  the  chicory-salad.  I  thought  that  was 
very  fine  !  My  Uncle  Victor  also  inspired  me  with 
much  respect  by  his  frogged  coat,  and  still  more 
by  his  way  of  turning  the  whole  house  upside  down 
from  the  moment  he  came  into  it.  Even  now  I 
cannot  tell  just  how  he  managed  it,  but  I  can  affirm 
that  whenever  my  Uncle  Victor  found  himself  in 
any  assembly  of  twenty  persons,  it  was  impossible 
to  see  or  to  hear  anybody  but  him.  My  excellent 
father,  I  have  reason  to  believe,  never  shared  my 
admiration  for  Uncle  Victor,  who  used  to  sicken 
him  with  his  pipe,  give  him  great  thumps  in  the 
back  by  way  of  friendliness,  and  accuse  him  of 
lacking  energy.  My  mother,  though  always  show- 
ing a  sister's  indulgence  to  the  Captain,  sometimes 
advised  him  to  fondle  the  brandy-bottle  a  little 
less  frequently.  But  I  had  no  part  either  in  these 
*  Crusts  on  which  garlic  has  been  tabbed. 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  25 

repugnances  or  these  reproaches,  and  Uncle  Victor 
inspired  me  with  the  purest  enthusiasm.  It  was 
therefore  with  a  feeling  of  pride  that  I  entered 
into  the  little  lodging  he  occupied  in  the  Rue 
Guenegaud.  The  entire  lunch,  served  on  a  small 
table  close  to  the  fireplace,  consisted  of  cold 
meats  and  confectionery. 

The  Captain  stuffed  me  with  cakes  and  undiluted 
wine.  He  told  me  of  numberless  injustices  to  which 
he  had  been  a  victim.  He  complained  particularly 
of  the  Bourbons ;  and  as  he  neglected  to  tell  me 
who  the  Bourbons  were,  I  got  the  idea — I  can't 
tell  how — that  the  Bourbons  were  horse-dealers 
established  at  Waterloo.  The  Captain,  who  never 
interrupted  his  talk  except  for  the  purpose  of  pour 
ing  out  wine,  furthermore  made  charges  against  a 
number  of  dirty  scoundrels,  blackguards,  and  good- 
for-nothings  whom  I  did  not  know  anything 
about,  but  whom  I  hated  from  the  bottom  of  my 
heart.  At  dessert  I  thought  I  heard  the  Captain 
say  my  father  was  a  man  who  could  be  led  anywhere 
by  the  nose  ;  but  I  am  not  quite  sure  that  I  under- 
stood him.  I  had  a  buzzing  in  my  ears ;  and  it 
seemed  to  me  that  the  table  was  dancing. 

My  uncle  put  on  his  frogged  coat,  took  his 
bell-shaped  hat,  and  we  descended  to  the  street, 
which  seemedvto  me  singularly  changed.  It  looked 
ttune,as,if.J  Jia4.not  beeiLin  it  before  for  ever  so  long.*--* 


Z6  THE  CRIME  OF 

time.  Nevertheless,  when  we  came  to  the  Rue  de 
Seine,  the  idea  of  my  doll  suddenly  returned  to 
my  mind  and  excited  me  in  an  extraordinary  way. 
My  head  was  on  fire.  I  resolved  upon  a  desperate 
expedient.  We  were  passing  before  the  window. 
She  was  there,  behind  the  glass — with  her  red  cheeks, 
and  her  flowered  petticoat,  and  her  long  legs. 

"  Uncle,"  I  said,  with  a  great  effort,  "  will  you 
buy  that  doll  for  me  ?  " 

And  I  waited. 

"  Buy  a  doll  for  a  boy — sacrebleu  !  "  cried  my 
uncle,  in  a  voice  of  thunder.  "  Do  you  wish  to 
dishonour  yourself  ?  And  it  is  that  old  Mag  there 
that  you  want !  Well,  I  must  compliment  you, 
my  young  fellow  !  If  you  grow  up  with  such  tastes 
as  that,  you  will  never  have  any  pleasure  in  life  ; 
and  your  comrades  will  call  you  a  precious  ninny. 
If  you  asked  me  for  a  sword  or  a  gun,  my  boy,  I 
would  buy  them  for  you  with  the  last  silver  crown 
of  my  pension.  But  to  buy  a  doll  for  you — 
by  all  that's  holy ! — to  disgrace  you  !  Never  in 
the  world  !  Why,  if  I  were  ever  to  see  you  playing 
with  a  puppet  rigged  out  like  that,  Monsieur,  my 
sister's  son,  I  would  disown  you  for  my  nephew  !  " 

On  hearing  these  words,  I  felt  my  heart  so  wrung 
that  nothing  but  pride — a  diabolic  pride — kept  me 
from  crying. 

My  uncle,  suddenly  calming  down,  returned  to  his 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  27 

ideas  about  the  Bourbons ;  but  I,  still  smarting  under 
the  weight  of  his  indignation,  felt  an  unspeakable 
shame.  My  resolve  was  quickly  made.  I  promised 
myself  never  to  disgrace  myself — I  firmly  and  for 
ever  renounced  that  red-cheeked  doll. 

I  felt  that  day,  for  the  first  time,  the  austere 
sweetness  of  sacrifice. 

Captain,  though  it  be  true  that  all  your  life  you 
swore  like  a  pagan,  smoked  like  a  beadle,  and  drank 
like  a  bell-ringer,  be  your  memory  nevertheless 
honoured — not  merely  because  you  were  a  brave 
soldier,  but  also  because  you  revealed  to  your  little 
nephew  in  petticoats  the  sentiment  of  heroism  ! 
Pride  and  laziness  had  made  you  almost  insup- 
portable, Uncle  Victor  ! — but  a  great  heart  used 
to  beat  under  those  frogs  upon  your  coat.  You 
always  used  to  wear,  I  now  remember,  a  rose  in 
your  button-hole.  That  rose  which  you  offered 
so  readily  to  the  shop-girls — that  large,  open- 
hearted  flower,  scattering  its  petals  to  all  the 
winds,  was  the  symbol  of  your  glorious  youth. 
You  despised  neither  wine  nor  tobacco;  but 
you  despised  life.  Neither  delicacy  nor  common 
sense  could  have  been  learned  from  you,  Cap- 
tain ;  but  you  taught  me,  even  at  an  age  when 
my  nurse  had  to  wipe  my  nose,  a  lesson  of 
honour  and  self-abnegation  that  I  shall  never 
forget. 


t8  THE  CRIME  OF 

You  have  now  been  sleeping  for  many  years  in 
the  Cemetery  of  Mont-Parnasse,  under  a  plain  slab 
bearing  this  epitaph : 

a-crr 

ARISTIDE  VICTOR  MALDENT, 
CAPITAINE  D'INFANTERIE, 

CHEVALIER   DK   LA   LEGION    D'HONNEUR. 

But  such,  Captain,  was  not  the  inscription  devised 
by  yourself  to  be  placed  above  those  old  bones  of 
yours — knocked  about  so  long  on  fields  of  battle 
and  in  haunts  of  pleasure.  Among  your  papers 
was  found  this  proud  and  bitter  epitaph,  which, 
despite  your  last  will,  none  could  have  ventured 
to  put  upon  your  tomb : 

cx-crr 
UN  BRIGAND  DE  LA  LOIRE. 

"  Th6rese,  we  will  get  a  wreath  of  immortelles 
to-morrow,  and  lay  them  on  the  tomb  of  the 
'  Brigand  of  the  Loire.'  "... 

But  Therese  is  not  here.  And  how,  indeed, 
could  she  be  near  me,  seeing  that  I  am  at  the  rond- 
point  of  the  Champs-Elysees  ?  There,  at  the 
termination  of  the  avenue,  the  Arc  de  Triomphe, 
which  bears  under  its  vaults  the  names  of  Uncle 
Victor's  companions-in-arms,  opens  its  giant  gate 
against  the  sky.  The  trees  of  the  avenue  are 
unfolding  to  the  sun  of  spring  their  first  leaves, 
itill  all  pale  and  chilly.  Beside  me  the  carriages 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  29 

keep  rolling  by  to  the  Bois  de  Boulogne.  Uncon- 
sciously I  have  wandered  into  this  fashionable 
avenue  on  my  promenade,  and  halted,  quite  stupidly, 
in  front  of  a  booth  stocked  with  gingerbread  and 
decanters  of  liquorice-water,  each  topped  by  a 
lemon.  A  miserable  little  boy,  covered  with  rags, 
which  expose  his  chapped  skin,  stares  with  widely 
•opened  eyes  at  those  sumptuous  sweets  which  are 
not  for  such  as  he.  With  the  shamelessness  of 
innocence  he  betrays  his  longing.  His  round,  fixed 
eyes  contemplate  a  certain  gingerbread  man  of 
lofty  stature.  It  is  a  general,  and  it  looks  a  little 
like  Uncle  Victor.  I  take  it,  I  pay  for  it,  and 
present  it  to  the  little  pauper,  who  dares  not  extend 
his  hand  to  receive  it — for,  by  reason  of  precocious 
experience,  he  cannot  believe  in  luck ;  he  looks 
at  me,  in  the  same  way  that  certain  big  dogs  do, 
with  the  air  of  one  saying,  "  You  are  cruel  to  make 
fun  of  me  like  that !  " 

"  Come,  little  stupid,"  I  say  to  him,  in  that  rough 
tone  I  am  accustomed  to  use,  "  take  it — take  it, 
and  eat  it ;  for  you,  happier  than  I  was  at  your 
age,  you  can  satisfy  your  tastes  without  disgracing 
yourself."  .  .  .  And  you,  Uncle  Victor — you, 
whose  manly  figure  has  been  recalled  to  me  by  that 
gingerbread  general,  come,  glorious  Shadow,  help 
me  to  forget  my  new  doll.  We  remain  for  ever 
children,  and  are  always  running  after  new  toys. 


30  THE  CRIME  OF 

Same  day. 

IN  the  oddest  way  that  Coccoz  family  has  become 
associated  in  my  mind  with  the  Clerk  Alexander. 

"  Therese,"  I  said,  as  I  threw  myself  into  my 
easy-chair,  "  tell  me  if  the  little  Coccoz  is  well, 
and  whether  he  has  got  his  first  teeth  yet — and 
bring  me  my  slippers." 

"  He  ought  to  have  them  by  this  time,  Monsieur," 
replied  Therese  ;  "  but  I  never  saw  them.  The 
very  first  fine  day  of  spring  the  mother  disappeared 
with  the  child,  leaving  furniture  and  clothes  and 
everything  behind  her.  They  found  thirty-eight 
empty  pomade-pots  in  the  attic.  It  passes  all 
belief !  She  had  visitors  latterly ;  and  you  may 
be  quite  sure  she  is  not  now  in  a  convent  of 
nuns.  The  niece  of  the  concierge  says  she  saw 
her  driving  about  in  a  carriage  on  the  boulevards. 
I  always  told  you  she  would  end  badly." 

"  Therese,"  I  replied,  "  that  young  woman  has 
not  ended  either  badly  or  well  as  yet.  Wait  until  the 
term  of  her  life  is  over  before  you  judge  her.  And 
be  careful  not  to  talk  too  much  with  that  concierge. 
It  seemed  to  me — though  I  only  saw  her  for  a 
moment  on  the  stairs — that  Madame  Coccoz  wai 
very  fond  of  her  child.  For  that  mother's  love 
at  least,  she  deserves  credit." 

"  As   far  as  that  goes,   Monsieur,   certainly  the 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  31 

little  one  never  wanted  for  anything.  In  all  the 
Quarter  one  could  not  have  found  a  child  better 
kept,  or  better  nourished,  or  more  petted  and 
coddled.  Every  day  that  God  makes  she  puts  a 
clean  bib  on  him,  and  sings  to  him  to  make 
him  laugh  from  morning  till  night." 

"Therese,  a  poet  has  said,  'That  child  whose 
mother  has  never  smiled  upon  him  is  worthy  neither 
of  the  table  of  the  gods  nor  of  the  couch  of  the 

goddesses.' ' 

July  8,  1852. 

HAVING  been  informed  that  the  Chapel  of  the 
Virgin  at  Saint-Germain-des-Pres  was  being  repaved, 
I  entered  the  church  with  the  hope  of  discovering 
some  old  inscriptions,  possibly  exposed  by  the 
labours  of  the  workmen.  I  was  not  disappointed. 
The  architect  kindly  showed  me  a  stone  which  he 
had  just  had  raised  up  against  the  wall.  I  knelt  down 
to  look  at  the  inscription  engraved  upon  that  stone  ; 
and  then,  half  aloud,  I  read  in  the  shadow  of  the 
old  apsis  these  words,  which  made  my  heart  leap  : 

"  Oy-gist  Alexandre,  moyne  de  ceste  eglise,  qui  fist 
mettre  en  argent  le  menton  de  Saint-Vincent  et  de 
Saint- Amant  et  le  -pie  des  Innocens ;  qui  toujours 
en  son  vivant  fut  freud'hom-me  et  vayttant.  Priez 
pour  Fame  de  lui." 

I  wiped  gently  away  with  my  handkerchief  the  dust 
covering  that  gravestone ;  I  could  have  kissed  it. 


32  THE  CRIME  OF 

"  It  is  he  !  it  is  Alexander  !  "  I  cried  out ;  and 
from  the  height  of  the  vaults  the  name  fell  back 
upon  me  with  a  clang,  as  if  broken. 

The  silent  severity  of  the  beadle,  whom  I  saw 
advancing  towards  me,  made  me  ashamed  of  my 
enthusiasm ;  and  I  fled  between  the  two  holy- 
water  sprinklers  with  which  two  rival  "  rats 
d'eglise  "  seemed  desirous  of  barring  my  way. 

At  all  events  it  was  certainly  my  own  Alexander  ! 
there  could  be  no  more  doubt  possible  ;  the  trans- 
lator of  the  "  Golden  Legend,"  the  author  of  the 
lives  of  Saints  Germain,  Vincent,  Ferreol,  Ferrution, 
and  Droctoveus  was,  just  as  I  had  supposed,  a 
monk  of  Saint-Germain-des-Pres.  And  what  a 
monk,  too — pious  and  generous !  He  had  a  silver 
chin,  a  silver  head,  and  a  silver  foot  made,  that 
certain  precious  remains  should  be  covered  with  an 
incorruptible  envelope  !  But  shall  I  never  be  able 
to  view  his  handiwork  ?  or  is  this  new  discovery 
only  destined  to  increase  my  regrets  ? 


August  20,  1859, 

1 1,  that  please  some,  try  all ;  both  joy  and  terror 
Of  good  and  bad  ;  that  make  and  unfold  error— 
Now  take  upon  me,  in  the  name  of  Time 
To  use  my  wings.    Impute  it  not  a  crime 
To  me  or  my  swift  passage,  that  I  slide 
O'er  yean." 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  33 

Who  speaks  thus  ?  Tis  an  old  man  whom  I 
know  too  well.  It  is  Time. 

Shakespeare,  after  having  terminated  the  third 
act  of  the  "  Winter's  Tale,"  pauses  in  order  to  leave 
time  for  little  Perdita  to  grow  up  in  wisdom  and  in 
beauty ;  and  when  he  raises  the  curtain  again  he 
evokes  the  ancient  Scythe-bearer  upon  the  stage 
to  render  account  to  the  audience  of  those  many 
long  days  which  have  weighed  down  upon  the  head 
of  the  jealous  Leontes. 

Like  Shakespeare  hi  his  play,  I  have  left  in  this 
diary  of  mine  a  long  interval  to  oblivion  ;  and  after 
the  fashion  of  the  poet,  I  make  Time  himself  inter- 
vene to  explain  the  omission  of  ten  whole  years. 
Ten  whole  years,  indeed,  have  passed  since  I  wrote 
one  single  line  in  this  diary ;  and  now  that  I  take 
up  the  pen  again,  I  have  not  the  pleasure,  alas ! 
to  describe  a  Perdita  "  now  grown  in  grace."  Youth 
and  beauty  are  the  faithful  companions  of  poets ; 
but  those  charming  phantoms  scarcely  visit  the 
rest  of  us,  even  for  the  space  of  a  season.  We  do 
not  know  how  to  retain  them  with  us.  If  the  fair 
shade  of  some  Perdita  should  ever,  through  some 
inconceivable  whim,  take  a  notion  to  traverse  my 
brain,  she  would  hurt  herself  horribly  against 
heaps  of  dog-eared  parchments.  Happy  the  poets  ! — 
their  white  hairs  never  scare  away  the  hovering 
shades  of  Helens,  Francescas,  Juliets,  Julias,  and 


34  THE  CRIME  OF 

Dorotheas !  But  the  nose  alone  of  Sylvestre 
Bonnard  would  put  to  flight  the  whole  swarm 
of  love's  heroines. 

Yet  I,  like  others,  have  felt  beauty  ;  I  have  known 
that  mysterious  charm  which  Nature  has  lent  to 
animate  form  ;  and  the  clay  which  lives  has  given 
to  me  that  shudder  of  delight  which  makes  the 
lover  and  the  poet.  But  I  have  never  known 
either  how  to  love  or  how  to  sing.  Now,  in  my 
memory — all  encumbered  as  it  is  with  the  rubbish 
of  old  texts — I  can  discern  again,  like  a  miniature 
forgotten  in  some  attic,  a  certain  bright  young 
face,  with  violet  eyes.  .  .  .  Why,  Bonnard,  my 
friend,  what  an  old  fool  you  are  becoming  !  Read 
that  catalogue  which  a  Florentine  bookseller 
sent  you  this  very  morning.  It  is  a  catalogue  of 
Manuscripts ;  and  he  promises  you  a  description 
of  several  famous  ones,  long  preserved  by  the 
collectors  of  Italy  and  Sicily.  There  is  something 
better  suited  to  you,  something  more  in  keeping 
with  your  present  appearance. 

I  read  ;  I  cry  out !  Hamilcar,  who  has  assumed 
with  the  approach  of  age  an  air  of  gravity  that 
intimidates  me,  looks  at  me  reproachfully,  and 
seems  to  ask  me  whether  there  is  any  rest  in 
this  world,  since  he  cannot  enjoy  it  beside  me, 
who  am  old  also  like  himself. 

In  the  sudden  joy  of  mv  discovery,  I  need  a 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  35 

:onfidant ;  and  it  is  to  the  sceptic  Hamilcar  that 
I  address  myself  with  all  the  effusion  of  a  happy 
man. 

"  No,  Hamilcar  !  no,"  I  said  to  him  ;  "  there  is 
no  rest  in  this  world,  and  the  quietude  you  long 
for  is  incompatible  with  the  duties  of  life.  And 
you  say  that  we  are  old,  indeed  !  Listen  to  what 
I  read  in  this  catalogue,  and  then  tell  me  whethei 
this  is  a  time  to  be  reposing  : 

U'LA  LEGENDE  DORSE  DE  JACQUES  DE  7ORAG1NE ;— 
traductio*    franfaisf  du  quatorzitme  stick,   par  If   Clerc 

Alexandre. 

**  *  Superb  MS.,  ornamented  with  two  miniatures,  wonderfully 
executed,  and  in  a  perfect  state  of  preservation : — one  represent- 
ing the  Purification  of  the  Virgin;  the  other  the  Coronation  of 
Proserpine. 

44  *  At  the  termination  of  the  "  Le"gende  Doree  "  ar«  the  Legends 
of  Saints  Ferreol,  Ferrution,  Germain,  and  Droctoveus  (xrviij  pp.) 
and  the  Miraculous  Sepulture  of  Monsieur  Saint-Germain  d'Auxerre 
(xij  pp.). 

" '  This  rare  manuscript,  which  formed  part  of  the  collection  of 
Sir  Thomas  Raleigh,  is  now  in  the  private  study  of  Signor  Michel- 
Angelo  Polizzi,  of  Girgenti." 

"  You  hear  that,  Hamilcar  ?  The  manuscript 
of  the  Clerk  Alexander  is  in  Sicily,  at  the  house 
of  Michel-Angelo  Polizzi.  Heaven  grant  he  may 
be  a  friend  of  learned  men !  I  am  going  to  write 
to  him  !  " 

Which  I  did  forthwith.  In  my  letter  I  requested 
Signor  Polizzi  to  allow  me  to  examine  the  manu- 


36  THE  CRIME  OF 

script  of  Clerk  Alexander,  stating  on  what  grounds 
I  ventured  to  consider  myself  worthy  of  so  great 
a  favour.  I  offered  at  the  same  time  to  put  at 
hit  disposal  several  unpublished  texts  in  my  own 
possession,  not  devoid  of  interest.  I  begged  him 
to  favour  me  with  a  prompt  reply,  and  below  my 
signature  I  wrote  down  all  my  honorary  titles. 

"  Monsieur  !  Monsieur  !  where  are  you  running 
like  that  ?  "  cried  Therese,  quite  alarmed,  coming 
down  the  stairs  in  pursuit  of  me,  four  steps  at  a 
time,  with  my  hat  in  her  hand. 

"  I  am  going  to  post  a  letter,  Therese." 

"  Good  God  !  is  that  a  way  to  run  out  in  the 
street,  bareheaded,  like  a  crazy  man  ?  " 

"  I  am  crazy,  I  know,  Therese.  But  who  is  not  ? 
Give  me  my  hat,  quick  !  " 

"  And  your  gloves,  Monsieur !  and  your  um- 
brella !  " 

I  had  reached  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  but  still 
heard  her  protesting  and  lamenting. 

October  10,  1859. 

I  AWAITED  Signer  Polizzi's  reply  with  ill-contained 
impatience.  I  could  not  even  remain  quiet ;  I 
would  make  sudden  nervous  gestures — open  books 
and  violently  close  them  again.  One  day  I  happened 
to  upset  a  book  with  my  elbow — a  volume  of 
Moreri.  Hamilcar,  who  was  washing  himself, 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  37 

suddenly  r topped,  and  looked  angrily  at  me,  with 
his  paw  over  his  ear.  Was  this  the  tumultuous  exist- 
ence he  must  expect  under  my  roof  ?  Had  there 
not  been  a  tacit  understanding  between  us  that 
we  should  live  a  peaceful  life  ?  I  had  broken 
the  covenant. 

"  My  poor  dear  comrade,"  I  made  answer,  "  I 
am  the  victim  of  a  violent  passion,  which  agitates 
and  masters  me.  The  passions  are  enemies  of  peace 
ind  quiet,  I  acknowledge ;  but  without  them 
there  would  be  no  arts  or  industries  in  the  world. 
Everybody  would  sleep  naked  on  a  dung-heap ; 
and  you  would  not  be  able,  Hamilcar,  to  repose 
all  day  on  a  silken  cushion,  in  the  City  of  Books." 

I  expatiated  no  further  to  Hamilcar  on  the  theory 
of  the  passions,  however,  because  my  housekeeper 
brought  me  a  letter.  It  bore  the  postmark  of 
Naples,  and  read  as  follows 

M  MOST  ILLUSTRIOUS  SIR, — I  do  indeed  possess  that  incomparable 
manuscript  of  the  *  Golden  Legend '  which  could  not  escape  your 
keen  observation.  All-important  reasons,  however,  forbid  me, 
imperiously,  tyrannically,  to  let  the  manuscript  go  out  of  my  posses- 
sion for  a  single  day,  for  even  a  single  minute.  It  will  be  a  joy  and 
pride  for  me  to  have  you  examine  it  in  my  humble  home  at  Girgenti, 
which  will  be  embellished  and  illuminated  by  your  presence.  It 
is  with  the  most  anxious  expectation  of  your  visit  that  I  presume  to 
lign  my»elf,  Seigneur  Academician, 

**  Your  humble  and  devoted  servant 

"  MICHEL-ANGELO  POLIZZI, 
"Wine-merchant  and  Archaeologist  at  Girgenti,   Sicily." 


38  THE  CRIME  OF 

Well,  then  !     I  will  go  to  Sicily  : 

"  Extremum  bunt,  Aretbwa,  mibi  concede  laborem? 

October  25,  1859. 

MY  resolve  had  been  taken  and  my  preparations 
made  ;  it  only  remained  for  me  to  notify  my  house- 
keeper. I  must  acknowledge  it  was  a  long  time 
before  I  could  make  up  my  mind  to  tell  her  I 
was  going  away.  I  feared  her  remonstrances,  her 
railleries,  her  objurgations,  her  tears.  "  She  is  a 
good,  kind  girl,"  I  said  to  myself ;  "  she  is  attached 
to  me  ;  she  will  want  to  prevent  me  from  going  ; 
and  the  Lord  knows  that  when  she  has  her  mind  set 
upon  anything,  gestures  and  cries  cost  her  no  effort. 
In  this  instance  she  will  be  sure  to  call  the  concierge, 
the  scrubber,  the  mattress -maker,  and  the  seven 
sons  of  the  fruit-seller  ;  they  will  all  kneel  down  in  a 
circle  around  me  ;  they  will  begin  to  cry,  and  then 
they  will  look  «o  ugly  that  I  shall  be  obliged  to 
yield,  so  as  not  to  have  the  pain  of  seeing  them 
any  more." 

Such  were  the  awful  images,  the  sick  dreams,  which 
fear  marshalled  before  my  imagination.  Yes,  fear — 
"  fecund  Fear,"  as  the  poet  says — gave  birth  to  these 
monstrosities  in  my  brain.  For — I  may  as  well 
make  the  confession  in  these  private  pages — I  am 
afraid  of  my  housekeeper.  I  am  aware  that  she 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  39 

knows  I  am  weak ;  and  this  fact  alone  is  sufficient 
to  dispel  all  my  courage  in  any  contest  with  her. 
Contests  are  of  frequent  occurrence ;  and  I  in- 
variably succumb. 

But  for  all  that,  I  had  to  announce  my  departure 
to  Therese.  She  came  into  the  library  with  an 
armful  of  wood  to  make  a  little  fire — "  une  flambee" 
she  said.  For  the  mornings  are  chilly.  I  watched 
her  out  of  the  corner  of  my  eye  while  she  crouched 
down  at  the  hearth,  with  her  head  in  the  opening 
of  the  fireplace.  I  do  not  know  how  I  then  found 
the  courage  to  speak,  but  I  did  so  without  much 
hesitation.  I  got  up,  and,  walking  up  and  down 
the  room,  observed  in  a  careless  tone,  with  that 
swaggering  manner  characteristic  of  cowards, 

"  By  the  way,  Therese,  I  am  going  to  Sicily." 

Having  thus  spoken,  I  awaited  the  consequence 
with  great  anxiety.  Therese  did  not  reply.  Her 
head  and  her  vast  cap  remained  buried  in  the  fire- 
place ;  and  nothing  in  her  person,  which  I  closely 
watched,  betrayed  the  least  emotion.  She  poked 
some  paper  under  the  wood,  and  blew  up  the  fire. 
That  was  all ! 

Finally  I  saw  her  face  again  ; — it  was  calm — so 
calm  that  it  made  me  vexed.  "  Surely,"  I  thought 
to  myself,  "  this  old  maid  has  no  heart.  She  lets  me 
go  away  without  saying  so  much  as  '  Ah  I  '  Can  the 
absence  of  her  old  master  really  affect  her  so  little  f  " 


40  THE  CRIME  OF 

"  Well,  then  go,  Monsieur,"  she  answered  at  last, 
"  only  be  back  here  by  six  o'clock  !  There  is  a  dish 
for  dinner  to-day  which  will  not  wait  for  anybody." 

Naples,  November  10,  1859. 

"  Co  tra  calle  vive,  magna,  e  lave  a  faccia" 
I  understand,  my  friend — for  three  centimes  I  can 
eat,  drink,  and  wash  my  face,  all  by  means  of  one 
of  those  slices  of  water-melon  you  display  there  on 
a  little  table.  But  Occidental  prejudices  would 
prevent  me  from  enjoying  that  simple  pleasure 
freely  and  frankly.  And  how  could  I  suck  a  water- 
melon ?  I  have  enough  to  do  merely  to  keep  on 
my  feet  in  this  crowd.  What  a  luminous,  noisy 
night  in  the  Strada  di  Porto  !  Mountains  of  fruit 
tower  up  in  the  shops,  illuminated  by  multicoloured 
lanterns.  Upon  charcoal  furnaces  lighted  in  the 
open  air  water  boils  and  steams,  and  ragouts  are 
singing  in  frying-pans.  The  smell  of  fried  fish  and 
hot  meats  tickles  my  nose  and  makes  me  sneeze. 
At  this  moment  I  find  that  my  handkerchief  has 
left  the  pocket  of  my  frock-coat.  I  am  pushed, 
lifted  up,  and  turned  about  in  every  direction  by 
the  gayest,  the  most  talkative,  the  most  animated 
and  the  most  adroit  populace  possible  to  imagine  ; 
and  suddenly  a  young  woman  of  the  people,  while 
I  am  admiring  her  magn  ficent  hair,  with  a  single 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  41 

shock  of  her  powerful  elastic  shoulder,  pushes  me 
staggering  three  paces  back  at  least,  without  injury, 
into  the  arms  of  a  maccaroni-eater,  who  receives 
me  with  a  smile. 

I  am  in  Naples.  How  I  ever  managed  to  arrive 
here,  with  a  few  mutilated  and  shapeless  remains  of 
baggage,  I  cannot  tell,  because  I  am  no  longer 
myself.  I  have  been  travelling  in  a  condition  of 
perpetual  fright ;  and  I  think  that  I  must  have 
looked  awhile  ago  in  this  bright  city  like  an  owl 
bewildered  by  sunshine.  To-night  it  is  much 
worse  !  Wishing  to  obtain  a  glimpse  of  popular 
manners,  I  went  to  the  Strada  di  Porto,  where  I 
now  am.  All  about  me  animated  throngs  of  people 
crowd  and  press  before  the  eating-places ;  and 
I  float  like  a  waif  among  these  living  surges,  which, 
even  while  they  submerge  you,  still  caress.  For 
this  Neapolitan  people  has,  in  its  very  vivacity, 
something  indescribably  gentle  and  polite.  I  am 
not  roughly  jostled,  I  am  merely  swayed  about ; 
and  I  think  that  by  dint  of  thus  rocking  me  to  and 
fro,  these  good  folks  want  to  lull  me  asleep  on  my 
feet.  I  admire,  as  I  tread  the  lava  pavements  of  the 
strada,  those  porters  and  fishermen  who  move  by  me 
chatting,  singing,  smoking,  gesticulating,  quarrel- 
ling, and  embracing  each  other  the  next  moment 
with  astonishing  versatility  of  mood.  They  live 
through  all  their  senses  at  the  same  time ;  and, 


42  THE  CRIME  OF 

being  philosophers  without  knowing  it,  keep  the 
measure  of  their  desires  in  accordance  with  the 
brevity  of  life.  I  approach  a  much-patronised 
tavern,  and  see  inscribed  above  the  entrance  this 
quatrain  in  Neapolitan  patois  : 

**  Amice,  alliegre  magnammo  t  bevimmo 
Nfin  che  ifce  stace  noglio  a  la  lucerna  f 
Chi  sa  fa  Vautro  munno  iCce  vedimmo  ? 
Chi  sa  fa  Fautro  munno  rfce  taverna 


Even  such  counsels  was  Horace  wont  to  give  to 
his  friends.  You  received  them,  Posthumus  ;  you 
heard  them  also,  Leuconoe,  perverse  beauty  who 
wished  to  know  the  secrets  of  the  future.  That 
future  is  now  the  past,  and  we  know  it  well.  Of  a 
truth  you  were  foolish  to  worry  yourselves  about  so 
small  a  matter  ;  and  your  friend  showed  his  good 
sense  when  he  told  you  to  take  life  wisely  and  to  filter 
your  Greek  wines  —  "  Sapias,  vina  liques."  Even 
thus  the  sight  ef  a  fair  land  under  a  spotless  sky 
urges  to  the  pursuit  of  quiet  pleasures.  But  there 
are  souls  for  ever  harassed  by  some  sublime  discon- 
tent ;  those  are  the  noblest.  You  were  of  such, 
Leuconoe  ;  and  I,  visiting  for  the  first  time,  in  my 
declining  years,  that  city  where  your  beauty  was 

•  "  Friends,  let  us  merrily  eat  and  drink  as  long  as  oil  remains  in 
the  lamp.  Who  knows  if  we  shall  meet  again  in  the  other  world  I 
Who  knows  if  in  the  other  world  there  be  a  tavern  ?  " 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  43 

famed  of  old,  I  salute  with  deep  respect  your  melan- 
choly memory.  Those  souls  of  kin  to  your  own 
who  appeared  in  the  age  of  Christianity  were  souls 
of  saints ;  and  the  "  Golden  Legend  "  is  full  of  the 
miracles  they  wrought.  Your  friend  Horace  left  a 
less  noble  posterity,  and  I  see  one  of  his  descendants 
in  the  person  of  that  tavern  poet,  who  at  this 
moment  is  serving  out  wine  hi  cups  under  the 
epicurean  motto  of  his  sign. 

And  yet  life  decides  in  favour  of  friend  Flaccus, 
and  his  philosophy  is  the  only  one  which  adapts 
itself  to  the  course  of  events.  There  is  a  fellow 
leaning  against  that  trellis-work  covered  with  vine- 
leaves,  and  eating  an  ice,  while  watching  the  stars. 
He  would  not  stoop  even  to  pick  up  the  old  manu- 
script I  am  going  to  seek  with  so  much  trouble  and 
fatigue.  And  in  truth  man  is  made  rather  to  eat 
ices  than  to  pore  over  old  texts. 

I  continued  to  wander  about  among  the  drinkers 
and  the  singers.  There  were  lovers  biting  into 
beautiful  fruit,  each  with  an  arm  about  the  other's 
waist.  Man  must  be  naturally  bad ;  for  all  this 
strange  joy  only  evoked  in  me  a  feeling  of  uttermost 
despondency.  That  thronging  populace  displayed 
such  artless  delight  in  the  simple  act  of  living, 
that  all  the  shynesses  begotten  by  my  old  habits 
as  an  author  awoke  and  intensified  into  something 
like  fright.  Furthermore,  I  found  myself  much 


44  THE  CRIME  OF 

discouraged  by  my  inability  to  understand  a  word 
of  all  the  storm  of  chatter  about  me.  It  was  a 
humiliating  experience  for  a  philologist.  Thus  I 
had  begun  to  feel  quite  sulky,  when  I  was  startled 
to  hear  some  one  just  behind  me  observe  : 

"  Dimitri,  that  old  man  is  certainly  a  Frenchman. 
He  looks  so  bewildered  that  I  really  feel  sorry  for 
him.  Shall  I  speak  to  him  ? .  .  .  He  has  such  a 
good-natured  look,  with  that  round  back  of  his — 
do  you  not  think  so,  Dimitri  ?  " 

It  was  said  in  French  by  a  woman's  voice.  For 
the  moment  it  was  disagreeable  to  hear  myself 
spoken  of  as  an  eld  man.  Is  a  man  old  at  sixty- 
two  ?  Only  the  other  day,  on  the  Pont  des  Arts, 
my  colleague  Perrot  d'Avrignac  complimented  me  on 
my  youthful  appearance ;  and  I  should  think  him  a 
better  authority  about  one's  age  than  that  young 
chatterbox  who  has  taken  it  on  herself  to  make 
remarks  about  my  back.  My  back  is  round,  she  says. 
Ah  !  ah  !  I  had  some  suspicion  myself  to  that 
effect,  but  I  am  not  going  now  to  believe  it  at  all, 
since  it  is  the  opinion  of  a  giddy-headed  young 
woman.  Certainly  I  will  not  turn  my  head  round 
to  see  who  it  was  that  spoke  ;  but  I  am  sure  it 
was  a  pretty  woman.  Why  ?  Because  she  talks  like 
a  capricious  person  and  like  a  spoiled  child.  Ugly 
women  may  be  naturally  quite  as  capricious  as 
pretty  one* :  but  as  they  are  never  petted  and 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  45 

spoiled,  and  as  no  allowances  are  made  for  them, 
they  soon  find  themselves  obliged  either  to  suppress 
their  whims  or  to  hide  them.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  pretty  women  can  be  just  as  fantastical  as  they 
please.  My  neighbour  is  evidently  one  of  the 
latter.  .  .  .  But,  after  all,  coming  to  think  it  over, 
she  really  did  nothing  worse  than  to  express,  in 
her  own  way,  a  kindly  thought  about  me,  for 
which  I  ought  to  feel  grateful. 

These  reflections — including  the  last  and  decisive 
one — passed  through  my  mind  in  less  than  a  second  ; 
and  if  I  have  taken  a  whole  minute  to  tell  them,  it  is 
only  because  I  am  a  bad  writer,  which  failing  is 
characteristic  of  most  philologists.  In  less  than  a 
second,  therefore,  after  the  voice  had  ceased,  I 
did  turn  round,  and  saw  a  pretty  little  woman — 
a  sprightly  brunette 

"  Madame,"  I  said,  with  a  bow,  "  excuse  my 
involuntary  indiscretion.  I  could  not  help  over- 
hearing what  you  have  just  said.  You  would  like  to 
be  of  service  to  a  poor  old  man.  And  the  wish, 
Madame,  has  already  been  fulfilled — the  mere  sound 
of  a  French  voice  has  given  me  such  pleasure  that  I 
must  thank  you." 

I  bowed  again,  and  turned  to  go  away ;  but  my 
foot  slipped  upon  a  melon-rind,  and  I  should  certainly 
have  embraced  the  Parthenopean  soil  had  not  the 
young  lady  put  out  her  hand  and  caught  me. 


46  THE  CRIME  OF 

There  is  a  force  in  circumstances — even  in  the  very 
smallest  circumstances — against  which  resistance  is 
vain.  I  resigned  myself  to  remain  the  protege  of  the 
fcir  unknown. 

"  It  is  late,"  she  said  ;  "  do  you  not  wish  to  go 
back  to  your  hotel,  which  must  be  quite  close  to 
ours — unless  it  be  the  same  one  ?  " 

"  Madame,"  I  replied,  "  I  do  not  know  what  time 
it  is,  because  somebody  has  stolen  my  watch ;  but 
I  think,  as  you  say,  that  it  must  be  time  to  retire  ; 
and  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  regain  my  hotelin  the 
company  of  such  courteous  compatriots." 

So  saying,  I  bowed  once  more  to  the  young  lady, 
and  also  saluted  her  companion,  a  silent  colossus 
with  a  gentle  and  melancholy  face. 

After  having  gone  a  little  way  with  them,  I  learned, 
among  other  matters,  that  my  new  acquaintances 
were  the  Prince  and  Princess  Trepof,  and  that  they 
were  making  a  trip  round  the  world  for  the  purpose 
of  finding  match-boxes,  of  which  they  were  making 
a  collection. 

We  proceeded  along  a  narrow,  tortuous  vicoletto^ 
lighted  only  by  a  single  lamp  burning  in  the  niche  of 
a  Madonna.  The  purity  and  transparency  of  the 
air  gave  a  celestial  softness  and  clearness  to  the  very 
darkness  itself  ;  and  one  could  find  one's  way  without 
difficulty  under  such  a  limpid  night.  But  in  a  little 
while  we  began  to  pass  through  a  "  venella,"  or,  in 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  47 

Neapolitan  parlance,  a  sottoportico,  which  led  under  so 
many  archways  and  so  many  far-projecting  balconies 
that  no  gleam  of  light  from  the  sky  could  reach  us. 
My  young  guide  had  made  us  take  this  route  as  a 
short  cut,  she  assured  us ;  but  I  think  she  did  so 
quite  as  much  simply  in  order  to  show  that  she  felt 
at  home  in  Naples,  and  knew  the  city  thoroughly. 
Indeed,  she  needed  to  know  it  very  thoroughly 
to  venture  by  night  into  that  labyrinth  of  sub- 
terranean alleys  and  flights  of  steps.  If  ever  any 
man  showed  absolute  docility  in  allowing  him- 
self to  be  guided,  that  man  was  myself.  Dante 
never  followed  the  steps  of  Beatrice  with  more  con- 
fidence than  I  felt  in  following  those  of  Princess 
Trepof. 

The  lady  appeared  to  find  some  pleasure  in  my 
conversation,  for  she  invited  me  to  take  a  carriage- 
drive  with  her  on  the  morrow  to  visit  the  grotto  of 
Posilippo  and  the  tomb  of  Virgil.  She  declared  she 
had  seen  me  somewhere  before  ;  but  she  could  not 
remember  if  it  had  been  at  Stockholm  or  at  Canton. 
In  the  former  event  I  was  a  very  celebrated  pro- 
fessor of  geology  ;  in  the  latter,  a  provision-merchant 
whose  courtesy  and  kindness  had  been  much  appre- 
ciated. One  thing  certain  was  that  she  had  seen 
my  back  somewhere  before. 

"  Excuse  me,"  she  added  ;  "  we  are  continually 
travelling,  my  husband  and  I,  to  collect  match- 


48  THE  CRIME  OF 

boxes  and  to  change  our  ennui  by  changing  country. 
Perhaps  it  would  be  more  reasonable  to  content 
ourselves  with  a  single  variety  of  ennui.  But  we 
have  made  all  our  preparations  and  arrangements 
for  travelling  :  all  our  plans  have  been  laid  out  in 
advance,  and  it  gives  us  no  trouble,  whereas  it  would 
be  very  troublesome  for  us  to  stop  anywhere  in 
particular.  I  tell  you  all  this  so  that  you  may  not 
be  surprised  if  my  recollections  have  become  a  little 
mixed  up.  But  from  the  moment  I  first  saw  you  at 
a  distance  this  evening,  I  felt — in  fact  I  knew — that 
I  had  seen  you  before.  Now  the  question  is,  *  Where 
was  it  that  I  saw  you  ? '  You  are  not,  then,  either 
the  geologist  or  the  provision-merchant  ?  " 

"  No,  Madame,"  I  replied,  "  I  am  neither  the  one 
nor  the  other ;  and  I  am  sorry  for  it — since  you 
have  had  reason  to  esteem  them.  There  is  really 
nothing  about  me  worthy  of  your  interest.  I  have 
spent  all  my  life  poring  over  books,  and  I  have 
never  travelled  :  you  might  have  known  that  from 
my  bewilderment,  which  excited  your  compassion. 
I  am  a  member  of  the  Institute." 

"  You  are  a  member  of  the  Institute  !  How 
nice  !  Will  you  not  write  something  for  me  in 
my  album  ?  Do  you  know  Chinese  ?  I  would  like 
so  much  to  have  you  write  something  in  Chinese  or 
Persian  in  my  album.  I  will  introduce  you  to  my 
friend,  Miss  Fergusson,  who  travels  everywhere  to 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  49 

see  all  the  famous  people  in  the  world.  She  will  be 
delighted  ....  Dimitri,  did  you  hear  that  ? — 
this  gentleman  is  a  member  of  the  Institute,  and 
he  has  passed  all  his  life  over  books." 

The  prince  nodded  approval. 

"  Monsieur,"  I  said,  trying  to  engage  him  in  our 
conversation,  "  it  is  true  that  something  can  be 
learned  from  books ;  but  a  great  deal  more  can  be 
learned  by  travelling,  and  I  regret  that  I  have  not 
been  able  to  go  round  the  world  like  you.  I  have 
lived  in  the  same  house  for  thirty  years  and  I 
scarcely  ever  go  out." 

"  Lived  in  the  same  house  for  thirty  years ! " 
cried  Madame  Trepof  ;  "  is  it  possible  ?  " 

"Yes,  Madame,"  I  answered.  "But  you  must 
know  the  house  is  situated  on  the  bank  of  the  Seine, 
and  in  the  very  handsomest  and  most  famous  part 
of  the  world.  From  my  window  I  can  see  the 
Tuileries  and  the  Louvre,  the  Pont-Neuf,  the  towers 
of  Notre-Dame,  the  turrets  of  the  Palais  de  Justice, 
and  the  spire  of  the  Sainte-Chapelle.  All  those 
stones  speak  to  me  ;  they  tell  me  stories  about  the 
days  of  Saint-Louis,  of  the  Valois,  of  Henri  IV.,  and 
of  Louis  XIV.  I  understand  them,  and  I  love  them 
all.  It  is  only  a  very  small  corner  of  the  world,  but 
honestly,  Madame,  where  is  there  a  more  glorious 
ipot  ?  " 

At  this  moment  we  found  ourselves  upon  a  public 


jo  THE  CRIME  OF 

square — a  largo  steeped  in  the  soft  glow  of  the  night. 
Madame  Trepof  looked  at  me  in  an  uneasy  manner  ; 
her  lifted  eyebrows  almost  touched  the  black  curls 
about  her  forehead. 

"  Where  do  you  live,  then  ?  "  she  demanded 
brusquely. 

"  On  the  Quai  Malaquais,  Madame,  and  my  name 
is  Bonnard.  It  is  not  a  name  very  widely  known, 
but  I  am  contented  if  my  friends  do  not  forget 
it." 

This  revelation,  unimportant  as  it  was,  produced 
an  extraordinary  effect  upon  Madame  Trepof.  She 
immediately  turned  her  back  upon  me  and  caught 
her  husband's  arm. 

"  Come,  Dimitri !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  do  walk  a 
little  faster.  I  am  horribly  tired,  and  you  will  not 
hurry  yourself  in  the  least.  We  shall  never  get 
home.  ...  As  for  you,  monsieur,  your  way  lies 
over  there  !  " 

She  made  a  vague  gesture  in  the  direction  of  some 
dark  vicolo,  pushed  her  husband  the  opposite  way, 
and  called  to  me,  without  even  turning  her  head. 

"  Adieu,  Monsieur  !  We  shall  not  go  to  Posilippo 
to-morrow,  nor  the  day  after,  either.  I  have  a 
frightful  headache  !  .  .  .  Dimitri,  you  are  unen- 
durable !  Will  you  not  walk  faster  ?  " 

I  remained  for  the  moment  stupefied,  vainly 
trying  to  think  what  I  could  have  done  to  offend 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  51 

Madame  Trepof.  I  had  also  lost  my  way,  and 
seemed  doomed  to  wander  about  all  night.  In  ordei 
to  ask  my  way,  I  would  have  to  see  somebody  ;  and 
it  did  not  seem  likely  that  I  should  find  a  single 
human  being  who  could  understand  me.  In  my 
despair  I  entered  a  street  at  random — a  street,  01 
rather  a  horrible  alley  that  had  the  look  of  a  mur- 
derous place.  It  proved  so  in  fact,  for  I  had  not 
been  two  minutes  in  it  before  I  saw  two  men 
fighting  with  knives.  They  were  attacking  each 
other  even  more  fiercely  with  their  tongues  than 
with  their  weapons ;  and  I  concluded  from  the 
nature  of  the  abuse  they  were  showering  upon  each 
other  that  it  was  a  love  affair.  I  prudently  made 
my  way  into  a  side  alley  while  those  two  good 
fellows  were  still  much  too  busy  with  their  own 
affairs  to  think  about  mine.  I  wandered  hopelessly 
about  for  awhile,  and  at  last  sat  down,  completely 
discouraged,  on  a  stone  bench,  inwardly  cursing  the 
strange  caprices  of  Madame  Trepof. 

"  How  are  you,  Signer  ?  Are  you  back  from 
San  Carlo  ?  Did  you  hear  the  diva  sing  ?  It  is 
only  at  Naples  you  can  hear  singing  like  hers." 

I  looked  up,  and  recognised  my  host.  I  had 
seated  myself  with  my  back  to  the  facade  of  my 
hotel,  under  the  window  of  my  own  room. 


52  THE  CRIME  OF 

Monte- Allegro,  November  30,  1859. 

WE  were  all  resting — myself,  my  guides,  and  their 
mules — on  the  road  from  Sciacca  to  Girgenti,  at  a 
tavern  in  the  miserable  village  of  Monte-Allegro, 
whose  inhabitants,  consumed  by  the  maF  aria,  con- 
tinually shiver  in  the  sun.  But  nevertheless  they 
are  Greeks,  and  their  gaiety  triumphs  over  all 
circumstances.  A  few  gather  about  the  tavern, 
full  of  smiling  curiosity.  One  good  story  would 
have  sufficed,  had  I  known  how  to  tell  it  to  them, 
to  make  them  forget  all  the  woes  of  life.  They 
had  all  a  look  of  intelligence  ;  and  their  women, 
although  tanned  and  faded,  wore  their  long  black 
cloaks  with  much  grace. 

Before  me  I  could  see  old  ruins  whitened  by  the 
sea-wind — ruins  about  which  no  grass  ever  grows. 
The  dismal  melancholy  of  deserts  prevails  over  this 
arid  land,  whose  cracked  surface  can  barely  nourish 
a  few  shrivelled  mimosas,  cacti,  and  dwarf  palms. 
Twenty  yards  away,  along  the  course  of  a  ravine, 
stones  were  gleaming  whitely  like  a  long  line  of 
scattered  bones.  They  told  me  that  was  the  bed 
of  a  stream. 

I  had  been  about  fifteen  days  in  Sicily.  On 
coming  into  the  Bay  of  Palermo — which  opens 
between  the  two  mighty  naked  masses  of  the 
Pelligrino  and  the  Catalfano,  and  extends  inward 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  53 

along  the  "  Golden  Conch  " — the  view  inspired 
me  with  such  admiration  that  I  resolved  to  travel 
a  little  in  this  island,  so  ennobled  by  historic  memo- 
ries, and  rendered  so  beautiful  by  the  outlines  of 
its  hills,  which  reveal  the  principles  of  Greek  art. 
Old  pilgrim  though  I  was,  grown  hoary  in  the 
Gothic  Occident — I  dared  to  venture  upon  that 
classic  soil ;  and,  securing  a  guide,  I  went  from 
Palermo  to  Trapani,  from  Trapani  to  Selinonte, 
from  Selinonte  to  Sciacca — which  I  left  this  morn- 
ing to  go  to  Girgenti,  where  I  am  to  find  the  MS. 
of  Clerk  Alexander.  The  beautiful  things  I  have 
seen  are  still  so  vivid  in  my  mind  that  I  feel  the 
task  of  writing  them  would  be  a  useless  fatigue. 
Why  spoil  my  pleasure-trip  by  collecting  notes  ? 
Lovers  who  love  truly  do  not  write  down  their 
happiness. 

Wholly  absorbed  by  the  melancholy  of  the  present 
and  the  poetry  of  the  past,  my  thoughts  peopled 
with  beautiful  shapes,  and  my  eyes  ever  gratified  by 
the  pure  and  harmonious  lines  of  the  landscape,  I 
was  resting  in  the  tavern  at  Monte-Allegro,  sipping 
a  glass  of  heavy,  fiery  wine,  when  I  saw  two  persons 
enter  the  waiting-room,  whom,  after  a  moment's 
hesitation,  I  recognised  as  the  Prince  and  Princess 
Trepof. 

This  time  I  saw  the  princess  in  the  light — and 
what  a  light !  He  who  has  known  that  of  Sicily  can 


54  THE  CRIME  OF 

better  comprehend  the  words  of  Sophocles  :  "  0 
holy  light  /  .  .  .  Eye  of  the  Golden  Day  !  "  Madame 
Trepof,  dressed  in  brown-holland  and  wearing  a 
broad-brimmed  straw  hat,  appeared  to  me  a  very 
pretty  woman  of  about  twenty-eight.  Her  eyes 
were  luminous  as  a  child's  ;  but  her  slightly  plump 
chin  indicated  the  age  of  plenitude.  She  is,  I  must 
confess  it,  quite  an  attractive  person.  She  is 
supple  and  changeful  ;  her  mood  is  like  water  it- 
self— and,  thank  Heaven  !  I  am  no  navigator.  I 
thought  I  discerned  in  her  manner  a  sort  of  ill- 
humour,  which  I  attributed  presently,  by  reason 
of  some  observations  she  uttered  at  random,  to 
the  fact  that  she  had  met  no  brigands  upon  her 
route. 

"  Such  things  only  happen  to  us  !  "  she  ex- 
claimed, with  a  gesture  of  discouragement. 

She  called  for  a  glass  of  iced  water,  which  the 
landlord  presented  to  her  with  a  gesture  that  re- 
called to  me  those  scenes  of  funeral  offerings  painted 
upon  Greek  vases. 

I  was  in  no  hurry  to  in  reduce  myself  to  a  lady 
who  ha.i  so  abruptly  dropped  my  acquaintance  in 
the  public  square  at  Naples ;  but  she  perceived 
me  in  my  corner,  and  her  frown  notified  me  very 
plainly  that  our  accidental  meeting  was  disagree- 
able to  her. 

After  she   had   sipped   her   ice-water   for  a 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  55 

moments — whether  because  her  whim  had  suddenly 
changed,  or  because  my  loneliness  aroused  her  pity, 
I  did  not  know — she  walked  directly  to  me. 

"  Good-day,  Monsieur  Bonnard,"  she  said. 
"  How  do  you  do  ?  What  strange  chance  enables 
us  to  meet  again  in  this  frightful  country  ?  " 

"  This  country  is  not  frightful,  Madame,"  I 
replied.  "  Beauty  is  so  great  and  so  august  a 
quality  that  centuries  of  barbarism  cannot  efface  it 
so  completely  that  adorable  vestiges  or  it  will  not 
always  remain.  The  majesty  of  the  antique  Ceres 
still  overshadows  these  arid  valleys ;  and  that 
Greek  Muse  who  made  Arethusa  and  Maenalus 
ring  with  her  divine  accents,  still  sings  for  my  ears 
upon  the  barren  mountain  and  in  the  place  of  the 
dried-up  spring.  Yes,  Madame,  when  our  globe, 
no  longer  inhabited,  shall,  like  the  moon,  roll  a 
wan  corpse  through  space,  the  soil  which  bears 
the  ruins  of  Selinonte  will  still  keep  the  seal  of 
beauty  in  the  midst  of  universal  death ;  and  then, 
tl  en,  at  least  there  will  be  no  frivolous  mouth  to 
blaspheme  the  g  andeur  of  these  solitudes." 

I  knew  well  enough  that  my  words  were  beyond 
the  comprehension  of  the  pretty  little  empty- 
head  which  heard  them.  But  an  old  fellow  like 
myself  who  has  worn  out  his  life  ove.  ooks  does 
not  know  how  to  adapt  his  tone  to  circumstances. 
Besides,  I  wished  to  give  Madame  Trcpof  a  lesson 


56  THE  CRIME  OF 

in  politeness.  She  received  it  with  so  much 
submission,  and  with  such  an  air  of  compre- 
hension, that  I  hastened  to  add,  as  good-naturedly 
as  possible, 

"As  10  whether  the  chance  which  has  enabled  me 
to  meet  you  again  be  lucky  or  unlucky,  I  cannot 
decide  the  question  until  I  am  sure  that  my  presence 
be  not  disagreeable  to  you.  You  appeared  to 
become  weary  of  my  company  very  suddenly  at 
Naples  the  other  day.  I  can  only  attribute  that 
misfortune  to  my  naturally  unpleasant  manner — 
since,  on  that  occasion,  I  had  had  the  honour  of 
meeting  you  for  the  first  time  in  my  life." 

These  words  seemed  to  cause  her  inexplicable 
joy.  She  smiled  upon  me  in  the  most  gracious, 
mischievous  way,  and  sa  d  very  earnestly,  holding 
out  her  hand,  which  I  touched  with  my  lips, 

"  Monsieur  Bonnard,  do  not  refuse  to  accept  a 
seat  in  my  carriage.  You  can  chat  with  me  on  the 
way  about  antiquity,  and  that  will  amuse  me  ever 
so  much." 

"  My  dear,"  exclaimed  the  prince,  "  you  can  do 
just  as  you  please  ;  but  you  ought  to  remember 
that  one  is  horribly  cramped  in  that  carriage  of 
yours ;  and  I  fear  you  are  only  offering  Monsieur 
Bonnard  the  chance  of  getting  a  frightful  attack 
of  lumbago." 

Madame  Trepof  simply  shook  her  head  by  way  of 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  57 

explaining  that  such  considerations  had  no  weight 
with  her  whatever  ;  then  she  untied  her  hat.  The 
darkness  of  her  black  curls  descended  over  her  eyes, 
and  bathed  them  in  velvety  shadow.  She  remained 
a  little  while  quite  motionless,  and  her  face  assumed 
a  surprising  expression  of  reverie.  But  all  of  a 
sudden  she  darted  at  some  oranges  which  the 
tavern-keeper  had  brought  in  a  basket,  and  began 
to  throw  them,  one  by  one,  into  a  fold  of  her  dress. 
"  These  will  be  nice  on  the  road,"  she  said. 
"  We  are  going  just  where  you  are  going — to 
Girgenti.  I  must  tell  you  all  about  it.  You  know 
that  my  husband  is  making  a  collection  of  match- 
boxes. We  bought  thirteen  hundred  match-boxes 
at  Marseilles.  But  we  heard  there  was  a  factory 
of  them  at  Girgenti.  According  to  what  we  were 
told,  it  is  a  very  small  factory,  and  its  products — 
which  are  very  ugly — never  go  outside  the  city 
and  its  suburbs.  So  we  are  going  to  Girgenti  just 
to  buy  match-boxes.  Dimitri  has  been  a  collector 
of  all  sorts  of  things  ;  but  the  only  kind  of  collec- 
tion which  can  now  interest  him  is  a  collection  of 
match-boxes.  He  has  already  got  five  thousand 
two  hundred  and  fourteen  different  kinds.  Some 
of  them  gave  us  frightful  trouble  to  find.  For 
instance,  we  knew  that  at  Naples  boxes  were  once 
made  with  the  portraits  of  Mazzini  and  Garibaldi  on 
them  ;  and  that  the  police  had  seized  the  platei 


58  THE  CRIME  OF 

from  which  the  portraits  were  printed,  and  put 
the  manufacturer  in  gaol.  Well,  by  dint  of  searching 
and  inquiring  for  ever  so  long  a  while,  we  found  one 
of  those  boxes  at  last  for  sale  at  one  hundred  francs, 
instead  of  two  sous.  It  was  not  really  too  dear  at 
that  price  ;  but  we  were  denounced  for  buying  it. 
We  were  taken  for  conspirators.  All  our  baggage 
was  searched  ;  they  could  not  find  the  box,  because 
I  had  hidden  it  so  well ;  but  they  found  my  jewels, 
and  carried  them  off.  They  have  them  s.ill.  The 
incident  made  quite  a  sensation,  and  we  were  going 
to  get  arrested.  But  the  king  was  displeased  about 
it,  and  he  ordered  them  to  leave  us  alone.  Up  to 
that  time,  I  used  to  think  it  was  very  stupid  to 
collect  match-boxes ;  but  when  I  found  that  there 
were  risks  of  losing  liberty,  and  perhaps  even  life, 
by  doing  it,  I  began  to  feel  a  taste  for  it.  Now  I 
am  an  absolute  fanatic  on  the  subject.  We  are 
going  to  Sweden  next  summer  to  complete  our 
series.  .  .  .  Are  we  not,  Dimitri  ?  " 

I  felt — must  I  confess  it  ? — a  thorough  sympathy 
with  these  intrepid  collectors.  No  doubt  I  would 
rather  have  found  Monsieur  and  Madame  Trepof 
engaged  in  collecting  antique  marbles  or  painted 
va?es  in  Sicily.  I  should  have  liked  to  have  found 
them  interested  in  the  ruins  of  Syracuse,  or  the 
poetical  traditions  of  the  Eryx.  But  at  all  events, 
they  were  making  s  me  sort  of  a  collection — they 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  59 

belonged  to  the  great  confraternity — and  I  could 
not  possibly  make  fun  of  them  without  making  fun 
of  myself.  Besides,  Madame  Trepof  had  spoken  of 
her  collection  with  such  an  odd  mingling  of  irony 
and  enthusiasm  that  I  could  not  help  rinding  the 
idea  a  very  good  one. 

We  were  getting  ready  to  leave  the  tavern,  when 
we  noticed  some  people  coming  downstairs  from 
the  upper  room,  carrying  carbines  under  their 
dark  cloaks.  To  me  they  had  the  look  of  thorough 
bandits ;  and  after  they  were  gone  I  told  Mon- 
sieur Trepof  my  opinion  of  them.  He  answered 
me,  very  quietly,  that  he  also  thought  they  were 
regular  bandits ;  and  the  guides  begged  us  to  apply 
for  an  escort  of  gendarmes,  but  Madame  Trepof 
besought  us  not  to  do  anything  of  the  kind.  She 
declared  that  we  must  not  "  spoil  her  journey." 

Then,  turning  her  persuasive  eyes  upon  me,  she 
asked, 

"  Do  you  not  believe,  Monsieur  Bonnard,  that 
there  is  nothing  in  life  worth  having  except 
sensations  ?  " 

"  Why,  Certainly,  Madame,"  I  answered  ;  "  but 
then  we  must  take  into  consideration  the  nature 
of  the  sensations  themselves.  Those  which  a  noble 
memory  or  a  grand  spectacle  creates  within  us 
certdnly  represent  what  is  best  in  human  life  ;  but 
those  merely  resulting  from  the  menace  of  danger 


6o  THE  CRIME  OF 

seem  to  me  sensations  which  one  should  be  very 
careful  to  avoid  as  much  as  possible.  For  example, 
would  you  think  it  a  very  pleasant  thing,  Madame, 
while  travelling  over  the  mountains  at  midnight, 
to  find  the  muzzle  of  a  carbine  suddenly  pressed 
against  your  forehead  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  she  replied  ;  "  the  comic-operas 
have  made  carbines  absolutely  ridiculous,  and  it 
would  be  a  great  misfortune  to  any  young  woman 
•o  find  herself  in  danger  from  an  absurd  weapon. 
But  it  would  be  quite  different  with  a  knife — a 
very  cold  and  very  bright  knife-blade,  which  makes 
a  cold  shudder  go  right  through  one's  heart. 

She  shuddered  even  as  she  spoke  ;  closed  her  eyes, 
and  threw  her  head  back.  Then  she  resumed : 

"  People  like  you  are  so  happy  !  You  can  in- 
terest yourselves  in  all  sorts  of  things  !  " 

She  gave  a  sidelong  look  at  her  husband,  who 
was  talking  with  the  innkeeper.  Then  she  leaned 
towards  me,  and  murmured  very  low : 

"  You  see,  Dimitri  and  I,  we  are  both  suffering 
from  ennui  !  We  have  still  the  match-boxes.  But 
at  last  one  gets  tired  even  of  match-boxes.  Besides, 
our  collection  will  soon  be  complete.  And  then 
what  are  we  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Madame  !  "  I  exclaimed,  touched  by  the 
moral  unhappiness  of  this  pretty  person,  "  if  you 
only  had  a  son,  then  you  would  know  what  to  do. 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  61 

You  would  then  learn  the  purpose  of  your  life, 
and  your  thoughts  would  become  at  once  more 
serious  and  yet  more  cheerful." 

"  But  I  have  a  son,"  she  replied.  "  He  is  a  big 
boy ;  he  is  eleven  years  old,  and  he  suffers  from  ennui 
like  the  rest  of  us.  Yes,  my  George  has  ennuif  too  ; 
he  is  tired  of  everything.  It  is  very  wretched." 

She  glanced  again  towards  her  husband,  who  was 
superintending  the  harnessing  of  the  mules  on  the 
road  outside— testing  the  condition  of  girths  and 
straps.  Then  she  asked  me  whether  there  had 
been  many  changes  on  the  Quai  Malaquais  during 
the  past  ten  years.  She  declared  she  never  visited 
that  neighbourhood  because  it  was  too  far  away. 

"  Too  far  from  Monte-Allegro  ?  "  I  queried. 

"  Why,  no  !  "  she  replied.  "  Too  far  from  the 
Avenue  des  Champs-Elysees,  where  we  live." 

And  she  murmured  over  again,  as  if  talking  to 
herself,  "  Too  far ! — too  far  !  "  in  a  tone  of  reverie 
which  I  could  not  possibly  account  for.  All  at 
once  she  smiled  again,  and  said  to  me,, 

"  I  like  you,  Monsieur  Bonnard  ! — I  like  you 
very,  very  much  !  " 

The  mules  had  been  harnessed.  The  young 
woman  hastily  picked  up  a  few  oranges  which  had 
rolled  off  her  lap  ;  rose  up  ;  looked  at  me,  and  burst 
out  laughing. 

'*  Oh !  "  she  exdaimed,  "  how  I  should  like  to 


62  THE  CRIME  OF 

see  you  grappling  with  the  brigands !  You  would 
say  such  extraordinary  things  to  them  !  .  .  .  Please 
take  my  hat,  and  hold  my  umbrella  for  me,  Monsieur 
Bonnard." 

"  What  a  strange  little  mind  !  "  I  thought  to 
myself,  as  I  followed  her.  "  It  could  only  have 
been  in  a  moment  of  inexcusable  thoughtlessness 
that  Nature  gave  a  child  to  such  a  giddy  little 
woman  !  " 

Girgenti.     Same  day. 

HER  manners  had  shocked  me.  I  left  her  to 
arrange  herself  in  her  lettica,  and  I  made  myself  as 
comfortable  as  I  could  in  my  own.  These  vehicles, 
which  have  no  wheels,  are  carried  by  two  mules- 
one  before  and  one  behind.  This  kind  of  litter, 
or  chaise,  is  of  ancient  origin.  I  had  often  seen 
representations  of  similar  ones  in  the  French  MSS. 
of  the  fourteenth  century.  I  had  no  idea  then  that 
one  of  those  vehicles  would  be  at  a  future  day 
placed  at  my  own  disposal.  We  must  never  be 
too  sure  of  anything. 

For  three  hours  the  mules  sounded  their  little 
bells,  and  thumped  the  calcined  ground  with  their 
hoofs.  On  either  hand  there  slowly  defiled  by  us  the 
barren  monstrous  shapes  of  a  nature  totally  African. 

Half-way  we  made  a  halt  to  allow  our  animals  to 
recover  breath. 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  63 

Madame  Trepof  came  to  me  on  the  road,  took 
my  arm,  and  drew  me  a  little  away  from  the  party. 
Then,  very  suddenly,  she  said  to  me  in  a  tone  of 
voice  I  had  never  heard  before  : 

"  Do  not  think  that  I  am  a  wicked  woman.  My 
George  knows  that  I  am  a  good  mother." 

We  walked  side  by  side  for  a  moment  in  silence. 
She  looked  up,  and  I  saw  that  she  was  crying. 

"  Madame,"  I  said  to  her,  "  look  at  this  soil 
which  has  been  burned  and  cracked  by  five  long 
months  of  fiery  heat.  A  little  white  lily  has  sprung 
up  from  it." 

And  I  pointed  with  my  cane  to  the  frail  stalk, 
tipped  by  a  double  blossom. 

"  Your  heart,"  I  said,  "  however  arid  it  be,  bears 
also  its  white  lily  ;  and  that  is  reason  enough  why 
I  do  not  believe  that  you  are  what  you  say — a 
wicked  woman." 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes !  "  she  cried,  with  the  obstinacy 
of  a  child — "  I  am  a  wicked  woman.  But  I  am 
ashamed  to  appear  so  before  you  who  are  so  good 
— so  very,  -very  good." 

"  You  do  not  know  anything  at  all  about  it,"  I 
said  to  her. 

"  I  know  it !  I  know  all  about  you,  Monsieur 
Bonnard  !  "  she  declared,  with  a  smile. 

And  she  jumped  back  into  her  lettica. 


64  THE  CRIME  OF 

Girgenti,  November  30,  1859. 

I  AWOKE  the  following  morning  in  the  House 
of  Gellias.  Gellias  was  a  rich  citizen  of  ancient 
Agrigentum.  He  was  equally  celebrated  for  his 
generosity  and  for  his  wealth  ;  and  he  endowed 
his  native  city  with  a  great  number  of  free  inns. 
Gellias  has  been  dead  for  thirteen  hundred  years ; 
and  nowadays  there  is  no  gratuitous  hospitality 
among  civilised  peoples.  But  the  name  of  Gellias 
has  become  that  of  a  hotel  in  which,  by  reason  of 
fatigue,  I  was  able  to  obtain  one  good  night's  sleep. 

The  modern  Girgenti  lifts  its  high,  narrow, 
solid  streets,  dominated  by  a  sombre  Spanish 
cathedral,  upon  the  site  of  the  acropolis  of  the 
antique  Agrigentum.  1  can  see  from  my  windows, 
half-way  on  the  hillside  towards  the  sea,  the  white 
range  of  temples  partially  destroyed.  The  ruins 
alone  have  some  aspect  of  coolness.  All  the  rest 
is  arid.  Water  and  life  have  forsaken  Agrigentum. 
Water — the  divine  Nestis  of  the  Agrigentine  Em- 
pedocles — is  so  necessary  to  animated  beings  that 
nothing  can  li^e  far  from  the  rivers  and  the  springs. 
But  the  port  of  Girgenti,  situated  at  a  distance 
of  three  kilometres  from  the  city,  has  a  great  com- 
merce. "  And  it  is  in  this  dismal  city,"  I  said  to 
myself,  "  upon  this  precipitous  rock,  that  the 
manuscript  of  Clerk  Alexander  is  to  be  -found  !  M 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  65 

1  asked  my  way  to  the  house  of  Signer  Michel- 
Angelo  Polizzi,  and  proceeded  thither. 

I  found  Signor  Polizzi,  dressed  all  in  white  from 
head  to  feet,  busy  cooking  sausages  in  a  frying-pan. 
At  the  sight  of  me,  he  let  go  the  handle  of  the  frying- 
pan,  threw  up  his  arms  in  the  air,  and  uttered 
shrieks  of  enthusiasm.  He  was  a  little  man  whose 
pimply  features,  aquiline  nose,  round  eyes,  and  pro- 
jecting chin  formed  a  very  expressive  physiognomy. 

He  called  me  "  Excellence,"  said  he  was  going 
to  mark  that  day  with  a  white  stone,  and  made  me 
sit  down.  The  hall  in  which  we  were  represented 
thf  union  of  kitchen,  reception-room,  bedchamber, 
siudio,  and  wine-cellar.  There  were  charcoal  fur- 
naces visible,  a  bed,  paintings,  an  easel,  bottles, 
strings  of  onions,  and  a  magnificent  lustre  of  coloured 
glass  pendants.  I  glanced  at  the  paintings  on  the 
wall. 

"  The  arts !  the  arts !  "  cried  Signor  Polizzi, 
throwing  up  his  arms  again  to  heaven — "  the  arts  ! 
What  dignity !  what  consolation !  Excellence,  I 
am  a  painter  !  " 

And  he  showed  me  an  unfinished  Saint-Francis, 
which  indeed  could  very  well  remain  unfinished 
for  ever  without  any  loss  to  religion  or  to  art. 
Next  he  showed  me  some  old  paintings  of  a  better 
style,  but  apparently  restored  after  a  decidedljr 
reckless  manner. 


66  THE  CRIME  OF 

"  I  repair,"  he  said — "  I  repair  old  paintings. 
Oh,  the  Old  Masters !  What  genius !  what  soul !  " 

"  Why,  then,"  I  said  to  him,  "  you  must  be  a 
painter,  an  archaeologist,  and  a  wine-merchant  all 
in  one  ?  " 

"  At  your  service,  Excellence,"  he  answered.  "  I 
have  a  zucco  here  at  this  very  moment — a  zucco  of 
which  every  single  drop  is  a  pearl  of  fire.  I  want 
your  Lordship  to  taste  of  it." 

"  I  esteem  the  wines  of  Sicily,"  I  responded , 
"  but  it  was  not  for  the  sake  of  your  flagons  that  I 
came  to  see  you,  Signer  Polizzi." 

He  :  "  Then  you  have  come  to  see  me  about 
paintings.  You  are  an  amateur.  It  is  an  immense 
delight  for  me  to  receive  amateurs.  I  am  going 
to  show  you  the  chef-d'oeuvre  of  Monrealese ;  yes, 
Excellence,  his  chef-d'oeuvre !  An  Adoration  of 
Shepherds !  It  is  the  pearl  of  the  whole  Sicilian 
school !  " 

I  :  "  Later  on  I  will  be  glad  to  see  the  chef- 
tfceuvrc  ;  but  let  us  first  talk  about  the  business 
which  brings  me  here." 

His  little  quick  bright  eyes  watched  my  face 
curiously ;  and  I  perceived,  with  anguish,  that  he 
had  not  the  least  suspicion  of  the  purpose  of  my  visit. 

A  cold  sweat  broke  out  over  my  forehead  ;  and  in 
the  bewilderment  of  my  anxiety  I  stammered  out 
something  to  this  effect : 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  67 

"  I  have  come  from  Paris  expressly  to  look  at  a 
manuscript  of  the  '  Legende  Doree,'  which  you 
informed  me  was  in  your  possession." 

At  these  words  he  threw  up  his  arms,  opened  his 
mouth  and  eyes  to  the  widest  possible  extent,  and 
betrayed  every  sign  of  extreme  nervousness. 

"  Oh  !  the  manuscript  of  the  '  Golden  Legend  ' ! 
A  pearl,  Excellence  !  a  ruby,  a  diamond  !  Two 
miniatures  so  perfect  that  they  give  one  the  feeling 
of  glimpses  of  Paradise  !  What  suavity  !  Those 
colours  ravished  from  the  corollas  of  flowers  make 
a  honey  for  the  eyes  !  Even  a  Sicilian  could  have 
done  no  better  !  " 

"  Let  me  see  it,  then,"  I  asked  ;  unable  to  conceal 
either  my  anxiety  or  my  hope. 

"  Let  you  see  it !  "  cried  Polizzi.  "  But  how  can 
I,  Excellence  ?  I  have  not  got  it  any  longer !  I 
have  not  got  it !  " 

And  he  seemed  determined  to  tear  out  his  hair. 
He  might  indeed  have  pulled  every  hair  in  his  head 
out  of  his  hide  before  I  should  have  trifd  to  prevent 
him.  But  he  stopped  of  his  own  accord,  before  he 
had  done  himself  any  grievous  harm. 

"  What !  "  I  cried  out  in  anger — "  what  !  you 
make  me  come  all  the  way  from  Paris  to  Girgenti, 
by  promising  to  show  me  a  manuscript,  and  now, 
when  I  come,  you  tell  me  you  have  not  got 
it  !  Tt  is  simply  infamous,  Monsieur  !  I  shall 


68  THE  CRIME  OF 

leave  your  conduct    to  be  judged   by  all    honest 
men  !  " 

Anybody  who  could  have  seen  me  at  that  moment 
would  have  been  able  to  form  a  good  idea  of  the 
aspect  of  a  furious  sheep. 

"  It  is  infamous  !  it  is  infamous  !  "  I  repeated, 
waving  my  arms,  which  trembled  from  anger. 

Then  Michel-Angelo  Polizzi  let  himself  fall  into 
a  chair  in  the  attitude  of  a  dying  hero.  I  saw  hii 
eyes  fill  with  tears,  and  his  hair — until  then  flam-, 
boyant  and  erect  upon  his  head — fall  down  in  limp 
disorder  over  his  brow. 

"  I  am  a  father,  Excellence  !  I  am  a  father  ! ' 
he  groaned,  wringing  his  hands. 

He  continued,  sobbing  : 

"  My  son  Rafael — the  son  of  my  poor  wife,  fo? 
whose  death  I  have  been  mourning  fifteen  years^ 
Rafael,  Excellence,  wanted  to  settle  at  Paris ;  he 
hired  a  shop  in  the  Rue  Lafitte  for  the  sale  of  curiosi- 
ties. I  gave  him  everything  precious  which  I  had 
— I  gave  him  my  finest  majolicas ;  my  most  beauti- 
ful Urbino  ware  ;  my  masterpieces  of  art  ;  what 
paintings,  Signor  !  Even  now  they  dazzle  me  when 
I  see  them  only  in  imagination !  And  all  of  them 
signed  !  Finally,  I  gave  him  the  manuscript  of  the 
*  Golden  Legend  '  !  I  would  have  given  him  my 
flesh  and  my  blood  !  An  only  son,  Signor  !  the  son 
of  my  poor  saintly  wife  !  " 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  69 

"  So,"  I  said,  "  while  I — relying  upon  your 
written  word,  Monsieur — was  travelling  to  the  very 
heart  of  Sicily  to  find  the  manuscript  of  the  Clerk 
Alexander,  the  same  manuscript  was  actually  ex- 
posed for  sale  in  a  window  in  the  Rue  Lafitte,  only 
fifteen  hundred  yards  from  my  house  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  was  there  !  that  is  positively  true  !  " 
exclaimed  Signer  Polizzi,  suddenly  growing  calm 
again  ;  "  and  it  is  there  still — at  least  I  hope  it  is, 
Excellence." 

He  took  a  card  from  a  shelf  as  he  spoke,  and 
offered  it  to  me,  saying, 

"  Here  is  the  address  of  my  son.  Make  it  known 
to  your  friends,  and  you  will  oblige  me.  Faience  and 
enamelled  wares ;  hangings ;  pictures.  He  has  a  com- 
plete stock  of  objects  of  art — all  at  the  fairest  possible 
prices — and  everything  authentic,  I  can  vouch  for 
it,  upon  my  honour  !  Go  and  see  him.  He  will 
show  you  the  manuscript  of  the  '  Golden  Legend.' 
Two  miniatures  miraculously  fresh  in  colour  !  " 

I  was  feeble  enough  to  take  the  card  he  held  out 
to  me. 

The  fellow  was  taking  further  advantage  of  my 
weakness  to  make  me  circulate  the  name  of  Rafael 
Polizzi  among  the  Societies  of  the  learned  ! 

My  hand  was  already  on  the  door-knob,  when  the 
Sicilian  caught  me  by  the  arm  ;  he  had  a  look  as 
of  sudden  inspiration. 

r 


70  THE  CRIME  OF 

"  Ah  !  Excellence  !  "  he  cried,  "  what  a  city  is 
this  city  of  ours  !  It  gave  birth  to  Empedocles  ! 
Empedocles  !  What  a  great  man  !  what  a  great 
citizen  !  What  audacity  of  thought  !  what  virtue  ! 
what  soul !  At  the  port  over  there  is  a  statue 
of  Empedocles,  before  which  I  bare  my  head  each 
time  that  I  pass  by !  When  Rafael,  my  son,  was 
going  away  to  found  an  establishment  of  antiquities 
in  the  Rue  Lafitte,  at  Paris,  I  took  him  to  the  port, 
and  there,  at  the  foot  of  that  statue  of  Empedocles, 
I  bestowed  upon  him  my  paternal  benediction  ! 
'  Always  remember  Empedocles ! '  I  said  to  him. 
Ah !  Signor,  what  our  unhappy  country  needs 
to-day  is  a  new  Empedocles !  Would  you  not  like 
me  to  show  you  the  way  to  his  statue,  Excellence  ? 
I  will  be  your  guide  among  the  ruins  here.  I  will 
show  you  the  temple  of  Castor  and  Pollux,  the 
temple  of  the  Olympian  Jupiter,  the  temple  of  the 
Lucinian  Juno,  the  antique  well,  the  tomb  of 
Theron,  and  the  Gate  of  Gold  !  All  the  professional 
guides  are  asses ;  but  we — we  shall  make  excava- 
tions, if  you  are  willing — and  we  shall  discover 
treasures !  I  know  the  science  of  discovering 
hidden  treasures — the  secret  art  of  finding  their 
whereabouts — a  gift  from  Heaven  !  " 

I  succeeded  in  tearing  myself  away  from  his 
grasp.  But  he  ran  after  me  again,  stopped  me  at 
the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and  said  in  my  ear, 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  71 

"  Listen,  Excellence.  I  will  conduct  you  about 
the  city  ;  I  will  introduce  you  to  some  Girgentines  ! 
What  a  race  !  what  types  !  what  forms  !  Sicilian 
girls,  Signor  ! — the  antique  beauty  itself  !  " 

"  Go  to  the  devil !  "  I  cried  at  last,  in  anger,  and 
rushed  into  the  street,  leaving  him  still  writhing 
In  the  loftiness  of  his  enthusiasm. 

When  I  had  got  out  of  his  sight,  I  sank  down 
upon  a  stone,  and  began  to  think,  with  my  face  in 
ray  hands. 

"  And  it  was  for  this,"  I  said  to  myself — "  it  was 
to  hear  such  propositions  as  this  that  I  came  to 
Sicily  !  That  Polizzi  is  simply  a  scoundrel,  and 
his  son  another  ;  and  they  made  a  plan  together 
to  ruin  me."  But  what  was  their  scheme  ?  I 
could  not  unravel  it.  Meanwhile,  it  may  be 
imagined  how  discouraged  and  humiliated  I  felt. 

A  merry  burst  of  laughter  caused  me  to  turn  my 
head,  and  I  saw  Madame  Trepof  running  in  advance 
of  her  husband,  and  holding  up  something  which  I 
could  not  distinguish  clearly. 

She  sat  down  beside  me,  and  showed  me — laughing 
more  merrily  all  the  while — an  abominable  little 
paste-board  box,  on  which  was  printed  a  red-and- 
blue  face,  which  the  inscription  declared  to  be  the 
face  of  Empedocles. 

"  Yes,  Madame,"  I  said,  "  but  that  abominable 
Polizzi,  to  whom  I  advise  you  not  to  send  Monsieur 


72  THE  CRIME  OF 

Tre"pof,  has  made  me  fall  out  for  ever  with  Em- 
pedocles ;  and  .this  portrait  is  not  at  all  of  a  nature 
to  make  me  feel  more  kindly  to  the  ancient  philo- 
sopher." 

"  Oh !  "  declared  Madame  Trepof,  "  it  is  ugly, 
but  it  is  rare  !  These  boxes  are  not  exported  at  all ; 
you  can  buy  them  only  where  they  are  made. 
Dimitri  has  six  others  just  like  this  in  his  pocket. 
We  got  them  so  as  to  exchange  with  other  collectors. 
You  understand  ?  At  nine  o'clock  this  morning  we 
were  at  the  factory.  You  see  we  did  not  waste  our 
time." 

"  So  I  certainly  perceive,  Madame,"  I  replied, 
bitterly  ;  "  but  I  have  lost  mine." 

I  then  saw  that  she  was  naturally  a  good-hearted 
woman.  All  her  merriment  vanished. 

"  Poor  Monsieur  Bonnard  !  poor  Monsieur  Bon- 
nard  !  "  she  murmured. 

And,  taking  my  hand  in  hers,  she  added  : 

"  Tell  me  about  your  troubles." 

I  told  her  about  them.  My  story  was  long  ;  but 
she  was  evidently  touched  by  it,  for  she  asked  me 
quite  a  number  of  circumstantial  questions,  which  I 
took  for  proof  of  friendly  interest.  She  wanted  to 
know  the  exact  title  of  the  manuscript,  its  shape,  its 
appearance,  and  its  age ;  she  asked  me  for  the 
address  of  Signer  Rafael  Polizzi. 

And  I  gave  it  to  her  ;    thus  doing  (O  destiny  !) 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  73 

precisely  what  the  abominable  Polizzihad  told  me 
to  do. 

It  is  sometimes  difficult  to  check  oneself.  I  re- 
commenced my  plaints  and  my  imprecations.  But 
this  time  Madame  Trepof  only  burst  out  laughing. 

"  Why  do  you  laugh  ?  "  I  asked  her. 

"  Because  I  am  a  wicked  woman,"  she  answered. 

And  she  fled  away,  leaving  me  all  disheartened  on 
my  stone 

Paris,  December  8,  1859. 

MY  unpacked  trunks  still  encumbered  the  hall. 
I  was  seated  at  a  table  covered  with  all  those  good 
things  which  the  land  of  France  produces  for  th<? 
delectation  of  gourmets.  I  was  eating  a  pdu  le 
CbartreSj  which  is  alone  sufficient  to  make  one  love 
one's  country.  Therese,  standing  before  me  with 
her  hands  joined  over  her  white  apron,  was  looking 
at  me  with  benignity,  with  anxiety,  and  with  pity. 
Hamilcar  was  rubbing  himself  against  my  legs,  wild 
with  delight. 

These  words  of  an  old  poet  came  back  to  my 
memory  : 

**  Happy  is  he  who,  like  Ulysses,  hath  made  a  goodly  journey." 

..."  Well,"  I  thought  to  myself,  "  I  travelled 
to  no  purpose  ;  I  have  come  back  with  empty 
hands ;  but,  like  Ulysses,  I  made  a  goodly  journey." 

And  having  taken  my  last  sip  of  coffee,  I  asked 


74  THE  CRIME  OF 

Theresc  for  my  hat  and  cane,  which  she  gave  me 
not  without  dire  suspicions  :  she  feared  I  might 
be  going  upon  another  journey.  But  I  reassured 
her  by  telling  her  to  have  dinner  ready  at  six  o'clock. 

It  had  always  been  a  keen  pleasure  for  me  to 
breathe  the  air  in  those  Parisian  streets  whose 
every  paving-slab  and  every  stone  I  love  devotedly. 
But  I  had  an  end  in  view,  and  I  took  my  way  straight 
to  the  Rue  Lafitte.  I  was  not  long  in  finding  the 
establishment  of  Signer  Rafael  Polizzi.  It  was 
distinguishable  by  a  great  display  of  old  paintings 
which,  although  all  bearing  the  signature  of  some 
illustrious  artist,  had  a  certain  family  air  of  resem- 
blance that  might  have  suggested  some  touching 
idea  about  the  fraternity  of  genius,  had  it  not  still 
more  forcibly  suggested  the  professional  tricks  of 
Polizzi  senior.  Enriched  by  these  doubtful  works 
of  art,  the  shop  was  further  rendered  attractive  by 
various  petty  curiosities  :  poniards,  drinking-vessels, 
goblets,  figulines,  brass  gaudrons,  and  Hispano- 
Arabian  wares  of  metallic  lustre. 

Upon  a  Portuguese  arm-chair,  decorated  with  an 
escutcheon,  lay  a  copy  of  the  "  Heures  "  of  Simon 
Vostre,  open  at  the  page  which  has  an  astrological 
figure  on  it ;  and  an  old  Vitruvius,  placed  upon  a 
quaint  chest,  displayed  its  masterly  engravings  of 
caryatides  and  telamones.  This  apparent  disorder 
which  only  masked  cunning  arrangement,  this 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  75 

factitious  hazard  which  had  placed  the  best  objects 
in  the  most  favourable  light,  would  have  increased 
my  distrust  of  the  place,  but  that  the  distrust  which 
the  mere  name  of  Polizzi  had  already  inspired  could 
not  have  been  increased  by  any  circumstances — 
being  already  infinite. 

Signor  Rafael,  who  sat  there  as  the  presiding 
genius  of  all  these  vague  and  incongruous  shapes, 
impressed  me  as  a  phlegmatic  young  man,  with 
a  sort  of  English  character.  He  betrayed  no  sign 
whatever  of  those  transcendent  faculties  displayed 
by  his  father  in  the  arts  of  mimicry  and  declamation. 

I  told  him  what  I  had  come  for  ;  he  opened  a 
cabinet  and  drew  from  it  a  manuscript,  which  he 
placed  on  a  table  that  I  might  examine  it  at  my  leisure. 

Never  in  my  life  did  I  experience  such  an  emotion 
— except,  indeed,  during  some  few  brief  months  of 
my  youth,  months  whose  memories,  though  I  should 
liv$  a  hundred  years,  would  remain  as  fresh  at  my 
last  hour  as  in  the  first  day  they  came  to  me. 

It  was,  indeed,  the  very  manuscript  described  by 
the  librarian  of  Sir  Thomas  Raleigh  ;  it  was,  indeed, 
the  manuscript  of  the  Clerk  Alexander  which  I  saw, 
which  I  touched  !  The  work  of  Voragine  himself 
had  been  perceptibly  abridged  ;  but  that  made 
little  difference  to  me.  All  the  inestimable  additions 
of  the  monk  of  Saint-Germain-des-Pres  were  there. 
That  was  the  main  point  I  I  tried  to  read  the 


76  THE  CRIME  OF 

Legend  of  Saint  Droctoveus  ;  but  I  could  not- 
all  the  lines  of  the  page  quivered  before  my  eyes, 
and  there  was  a  sound  in  my  ears  like  the  noise  of 
a  windmill  in  the  country  at  night.  Nevertheless, 
I  was  able  to  see  that  the  manuscript  offered  every 
evidence  of  indubitable  authenticity.  The  two 
drawings  of  the  Purification  of  the  Virgin  and  the 
Coronation  of  Proserpine  were  meagre  in  design 
and  vulgar  in  violence  of  colouring.  Considerably 
damaged  in  1824,  as  attested  by  the  catalogue  of  Sir 
Thomas,  they  had  obtained  during  the  interval  a 
new  aspect  of  freshness.  But  this  miracle  did  not 
surprise  me  at  all.  And,  besides,  what  did  I  care 
about  the  two  miniatures  ?  The  legends  and  the 
poem  of  Alexander — those  alone  formed  the  treasure 
I  desired.  My  eyes  devoured  as  much  of  it  as  they 
had  the  power  to  absorb. 

I  affected  indifference  while  asking  Signer  Polizzi 
the  price  of  the  manuscript ;  and,  while  awaiting  his 
reply,  I  offered  up  a  secret  prayer  that  the  price 
might  not  exceed  the  amount  of  ready  money  at 
my  disposal — already  much  diminished  by  the  cost 
of  my  expensive  voyage.  Signor  Polizzi,  however, 
informed  me  that  he  was  not  at  liberty  to  dispose 
of  the  article,  inasmuch  as  it  did  not  belong  to  him, 
and  was  to  be  sold  at  auction  shortly,  at  the  Hotel 
des  Ventes,  with  a  number  of  other  MSS.  and 
several  incunabula. 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  77 

This  was  a  severe  blow  to  me.  I  tried  to  preserve 
my  calmness,  notwithstanding,  and  replied  some- 
what to  this  effect : 

"  You  surprise  me,  Monsieur !  Your  father, 
whom  I  talked  with  recently  at  Girgenti,  told  me 
positively  the  manuscript  was  yours.  You  cannot 
now  attempt  to  make  me  discredit  your  father's 
word." 

"  I  did  own  the  manuscript,  indeed,"  answered 
Signer  Rafael  with  absolute  frankness ;  "  but  I  do 
not  own  it  any  longer.  I  sold  that  manuscript — 
the  remarkable  interest  of  which  you  have  not  failed 
to  perceive — to  an  amateur  whom  I  am  forbidden  to 
name,  and  who,  for  reasons  which  I  am  not  at  liberty 
to  mention,  finds  himself  obliged  to  sell  his  collec- 
tion. I  am  honoured  with  the  confidence  of  my 
customer,  and  was  commissioned  by  him  to  draw  up 
the  catalogue  and  manage  the  sale,  which  takes  place 
the  24th  of  December.  Now,  if  you  will  be  kind 
enough  to  give  me  your  address,  I  shall  have  the 
pleasure  of  sending  you  the  catalogue,  which  is 
already  in  the  press.  You  will  find  the  *  Legende 
Doree  '  described  in  it  as  *  No.  42.'  " 

I  gave  my  address,  and  left  the  shop. 

The  polite  gravity  of  the  son  impressed  me  quite 
as  disagreeably  as  the  impudent  buffoonery  of  the 
father.  I  hated,  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart, 
the  tricks  of  the  vile  hagglers !  It  was  perfectly 


78  THE  CRIME  OF 

evident  that  the  two  rascals  had  a  secret  understand- 
ing, and  had  only  devised  this  auction-sale,  with  the 
aid  of  a  professional  appraiser,  to  force  the  bidding 
on  the  manuscript  I  wanted  so  much  up  to  an  out- 
rageous figure.  I  was  completely  at  their  mercy. 
There  is  one  evil  in  all  passionate  desires,  even  the 
noblest — namely,  that  they  leave  us  subject  to  the 
will  of  others,  and  in  so  far  dependent.  This  re- 
flection made  me  suffer  cruelly ;  but  it  did  not 
conquer  my  longing  to  own  the  work  of  Clerk 
Alexander.  While  I  was  thus  meditating,  I  heard  a 
coachman  swear.  And  I  discovered  it  was  I  whom 
he  was  swearing  at  only  when  I  felt  the  pole  of 
a  carriage  poke  me  in  the  ribs.  I  started  aside, 
barely  in  time  to  save  myself  from  being  run  over ; 
and  whom  did  I  perceive  through  the  windows  of 
the  coupe  ?  Madame  Trepof,  being  taken  by  two 
beautiful  horses,  and  a  coachman  all  wrapped  up  in 
furs  like  a  Russian  boyard,  into  the  very  street  I  had 
just  left.  She  did  not  notice  me  ;  she  was  laughing 
to  herself  with  that  artless  grace  of  expression  which 
still  preserved  for  her,  at  thirty  years,  all  the  charm 
of  her  early  youth. 

"  Well,  well !  "  I  said  to  myself,  "  she  is  laugh- 
ing !  I  suppose  she  must  have  just  found  another 
match-box." 

And  I  made  my  way  back  to  the  Fonts,  feeling 
very  miserable. 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  79 

Nature,  eternally  indifferent,  neither  hastened 
nor  hurried  the  twenty-fourth  day  of  December.  I 
went  to  the  Hotel  Bullion,  and  took  my  place  in 
Salle  No.  4,  immediately  below  the  high  desk  at 
which  the  auctioneer  Boulouze  and  the  expert 
Polizzi  were  to  sit.  I  saw  the  hall  gradually  fill 
with  familiar  faces.  I  shook  hands  with  several  old 
booksellers  of  the  quays ;  but  that  prudence  which 
any  large  interest  inspires  in  even  the  most  self- 
assured  caused  me  to  keep  silence  in  regard  to  the 
reason  of  my  unaccustomed  presence  in  the  halls  of 
the  Hotel  Bullion.  On  the  other  hand,  I  questioned 
those  gentlemen  closely  about  the  purpose  of  their 
attendance  at  the  auction-sale ;  and  I  had  the 
satisfaction  of  finding  them  all  interested  about 
matters  in  no  wise  related  to  my  affair. 

Little  by  little  the  hall  became  thronged  with 
interested  or  merely  curious  spectators ;  and,  after 
half  an  hour's  delay,  the  auctioneer,  with  his  ivory 
hammer,  the  clerk  with  his  bundle  of  memorandum- 
papers,  and  the  crier,  carrying  his  collection-box 
fixed  to  the  end  of  a  pole,  all  took  their  places  on  the 
platform  in  the  most  solemn  business  manner. 
The  attendants  ranged  themselves  at  the  foot  of 
the  desk.  The  presiding  officer  having  declared 
thfi  sale  open,  a  partial  hush  followed. 

A  commonplace  series  of  Preces  pi<zy  with  minia- 
tures, were  first  sold  off  at  mediocre  prices.  Need- 


80  THE  CRIME  OF 

less  to  say,  the  illuminations  of  these  books  were  in 
perfect  condition  ! 

The  lowness  of  the  bids  gave  courage  to  the  gather- 
ing of  second-hand  booksellers  present,  who  began 
to  mingle  with  us,  and  become  familiar.  The 
dealers  in  old  brass  and  bric-d-brac  pressed  forward 
in  their  turn,  waiting  for  the  doors  of  an  adjoining 
room  to  be  opened  ;  and  the  voice  of  the  auctioneer 
was  drowned  by  the  jests  of  the  Auvergnats. 

A  magnificent  codex  of  the  "  Guerre  des  Juifs  " 
revived  attention.  It  was  long  disputed  for. 
"  Five  thousand  francs !  five  thousand  !  "'  called 
the  crier,  while  the  bric-d-brac  dealers  remained 
silent  with  admiration.  Then  seven  or  eight  anti- 
phonaries  brought  us  back  again  to  low  prices.  A 
fat  old  woman,  in  a  loose  gown,  bareheaded — a 
dealer  in  second-hand  goods — encouraged  by  the  size 
of  the  books  and  the  low  prices  bidden,  had  one  of 
the  antiphonaries  knocked  down  to  her  for  thirty 
francs. 

At  last  the  expert  Polizzi  announced  No.  42  : 
"  The  '  Golden  Legend  '  ;  French  MS.  ;  un- 
published ;  two  superb  miniatures,  with  a  starting 
bid  of  three  thousand  francs." 

"  Three  thousand  !  three  thousand  bid  !  "  yelled 
the  crier. 

"  Three  thousand  i "  dryly  repeated  the  auc- 
tioneer. 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  81 

There  was  a  buzzing  in  my  head,  and,  as  through 
a  cloud,  I  saw  a  host  of  curious  faces  all  turning 
towards  the  manuscript,  which  a  boy  was  carrying 
open  through  the  audience. 

"  Three  thousand  and  fifty  !  "  I  said. 

I  was  frightened  by  the  sound  of  my  own  voice, 
and  further  confused  by  seeing,  or  thinking  that  I 
saw,  all  eyes  turned  upon  me. 

"  Three  thousand  and  fifty  on  the  right ! " 
called  the  crier,  taking  up  my  bid. 

"  Three  thousand  one  hundred  !  "  responded 
Signer  Polizzi. 

Then  began  a  heroic  duel  between  the  expert  and 
myrelf. 

"  Three  thousand  five  hundred  !  " 

"  Six  hundred  !  " 

"  Seven  hundred  !  " 

"  Four  thousand  !  " 

"  Four  thousand  five  hundred." 

Then,  by  a  sudden  bold  stroke,  Signer  Polizzi 
raised  the  bid  at  once  to  six  thousand. 

Six  thousand  francs  was  all  the  money  I  could 
dispose  of.  It  represented  the  possible.  I  risked 
the  impossible. 

"  Six  thousand  one  hundred  !  " 

Alas  !  even  the  impossible  did  not  suffice. 

"  Six  thousand  five  hundred  !  "  replied  Signer 
Polizzi,  with  calm. 


82  THE  CRIME  OF 

I  bowed  my  head  and  sat  there  stupefied,  unable 
to  answer  either  yes  or  no  to  the  crier,  who  called  to 
me  : 

"  Six  thousand  five  hundred,  by  me — not  by  you 
on  the  right  there  ! — it  is  my  bid — no  mistake  ! 
Six  thousand  five  hundred  !  " 

"  Perfectly  understood  !  "  declared  the  auctioneer. 
"  Six  thousand  five  hundred.  Perfectly  clear  ;  per- 
fectly plain.  .  .  .  Any  more  bids  ?  The  last  bid 
is  six  thousand  five  hundred  francs  !  " 

A  solemn  silence  prevailed.  Suddenly  I  felt  as  if 
my  head  had  burst  open.  It  was  the  hammer  of  the 
officiant,  who,  with  a  loud  blow  on  the  platform, 
adjudged  No.  42  irrevocably  to  Signor  Polizzi. 
Forthwith  the  pen  of  the  clerk,  coursing  over  the 
papier-timbre,  registered  that  great  fact  in  a  single 
line. 

I  was  absolutely  prostrated,  and  I  felt  the  utmost 
need  of  rest  and  quiet.  Nevertheless,  I  did  not 
leave  my  seat.  My  powers  of  reflection  slowly 
returned.  Hope  is  tenacious.  I  had  one  more 
hope.  It  occurred  to  me  that  the  new  owner  of  the 
"  Legende  Doree  "  might  be  some  intelligent  and 
liberal  bibliophile  who  would  allow  me  to  exam  ne 
the  MS.,  and  perhaps  eveji  to  publish  the  more 
important  parts.  And,  with  this  idea,  as  soon  as 
the  sale  was  over  I  approached  the  expert  as  he 
was  leaving  the  platform. 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  83 

"  Monsieur,"  I  asked  him,  "  did  you  buy  in  No. 
42  on  your  own  account,  or  on  commission  ?  " 

"  On  commission.  I  was  instructed  not  to  let  it 
go  at  any  price." 

"  Can  you  tell  me  the  name  of  the  purchaser  ?  " 

"  Monsieur,  I  regret  that  I  cannot  serve  you  in 
that  respect.  I  have  been  strictly  forbidden  to 
mention  the  name." 

I  went  home  in  despair. 

December  30,  1859. 

"  TniidsE  !  don't  you  hear  the  bell  ?  Some- 
body has  been  ringing  at  the  door  for  the  last  quarter 
of  an,  hour  ?  " 

Therese  does  not  answer.  She  is  chattering  down- 
stairs with  the  concierge,  for  sure.  So  that  is  the 
way  you  observe  your  old  master's  birthday  ?  You 
desert  me  even  on  the  eve  of  Saint-Sylvestre ! 
Alas !  if  I  am  to  hear  any  kind  wishes  to-day,  they 
must  come  up  from  the  ground ;  for  all  who  love 
me  have  long  been  buried.  I  really  don't  know 
what  I  am  still  living  for.  There  is  the  bell  again  ! 
...  I  get  up  slowly  from  my  seat  at  the  fire,  with 
my  shoulders  still  bent  from  stooping  over  it,  and  go 
to  the  door  myself.  Whom  do  I  see  at  the  threshold? 
It  is  not  a  dripping  Love,  and  I  am  not  an  old  Ana- 
creon  ;  but  it  is  a  very  pretty  little  boy  of  about  ten 
years  old.  He  is  alone ;  he  raises  his  face  to  look  at 


84  THE  CRIME  OF 

me.  His  cheeks  are  blushing  ;  but  his  little  pert 
nose  gives  one  an  idea  of  mischievous  pleasantry. 
He  has  feathers  in  his  cap,  and  a  great  lace-ruff  on 
his  jacket.  The  pretty  little  fellow  !  He  holds  in 
both  arms  a  bundle  as  big  as  himself,  and  asks  me 
if  I  am  Monsieur  Sylvestre  Bonnard.  I  tell  him 
yes  ;  he  gives  me  the  bundle,  tells  me  his  mamma 
sent  it  to  me,  and  then  he  runs  downstairs. 

I  go  down  a  few  steps ;  I  lean  over  the  balustrade, 
and  see  the  little  cap  whirling  down  the  spiral  of  the 
stairway  like  a  feather  in  the  wind.  "  Good-bye, 
my  little  boy  !  "  I  should  have  liked  so  much  to 
question  him.  But  what,  after  all,  could  I  have 
asked  ?  It  is  not  polite  to  question  children. 
Besides,  the  package  itself  will  probably  give  me 
more  information  than  the  messenger  could. 

It  is  a  very  big  bundle,  but  not  very  heavy.  I 
take  it  into  my  library,  and  there  untie  the  ribbons 
and  unfasten  the  paper  wrappings ;  and  I  see — 
what  ?  a  log  !  a  first-class  log  !  a  real  Christmas 
log,  but  so  light  that  I  know  it  must  be  hollow. 
Then  I  find  that  it  is  indeed  composed  of  two 
separate  pieces,  opening  on  hinges,  and  fastened 
with  hooks.  I  slip  the  hooks  back,  and  find  myself 
inundated  with  violets  !  Violets !  they  pour  over 
my  table,  over  my  knees,  over  the  carpet.  They 
tumble  into  my  vest,  into  my  sleeves.  I  am  all 
perfumed  with  them. 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  85 

"  Therese  !  Therese  !  fill  me  some  vases  with 
water,  and  bring  them  here,  quick !  Here  are 
violets  sent  to  us  I  know  not  from  what  country 
nor  by  what  hand  ;  but  it  must  be  from  a  per- 
fumed country,  and  by  a  very  gracious  hand.  .  .  . 
Do  you  hear  me,  old  crow  ?  " 

I  have  put  all  the  violets  on  my  table — now  com- 
pletely covered  by  the  odorous  mass.  But  there  is 
still  something  in  the  log.  .  .  a  book — a  manuscript. 
It  is  .  .  .1  cannot  believe  it,  and  yet  I  cannot  doubt 
it.  ...  It  is  the  "  Legende  Doree  "  !— it  is  the 
manuscript  of  the  Clerk  Alexander  !  Here  is  the 
"  Purification  of  the  Virgin  "  and  the  "  Coronation 
of  Proserpine " ; — here  is  the  legend  of  Saint 
Droctoveus.  I  contemplate  this  violet-perfumed 
relic.  I  turn  the  leaves  of  it — between  which  the 
dark  rich  blossoms  have  slipped  in  here  and  there  ; 
and,  right  opposite  the  legend  of  Saint-Cecilia,  I 
find  a  card  bearing  this  name  : 

"  Princess  Trepof." 

Princess  Trepof  ! — you  who  laughed  and  wept  by 
turns  so  sweetly  under  the  fair  sky  of  Agrigentum  ! — 
you,  whom  a  cross  old  man  believed  to  be  only  a 
foolish  little  woman  ! — to-day  I  am  convinced  of 
your  rare  and  beautiful  folly  ;  and  the  old  fellow 
whom  you  now  overwhelm  with  happiness  will  go 
to  kiss  your  hand,  and  give  you  back,  in  another 


86  THE  CRIME  OF 

form,  this  precious  manuscript,  of  which  both  he 
and  science  owe  you  an  exact  and  sumptuous 
publication  ! 

Therese  entered  my  study  just  at  that  moment ; 
she  seemed  to  be  very  much  excited. 

"  Monsieur  !  "  she  cried,  "  guess  whom  I  saw  just 
now  in  a  carriage,  with  a  coat-of-arms  painted  on 
it,  that  was  stopping  before  the  door  ?  " 

"  Parbleu  /  — Madame  Trepof,"   I   exclaimed. 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  any  Madame  Tre- 
pof," answered  my  housekeeper.  "  The  woman  I 
saw  just  now  was  dressed  like  a  duchess,  and  had  a 
little  boy  with  her,  with  lace-frills  all  along  the 
seams  of  his  clothes.  And  it  was  that  same  little 
Madame  Coccoz  you  once  sent  a  log  to,  when  she 
was  lying-in  here  about  eleven  years  ago.  I 
recognised  her  at  once." 

"  What !  "  I  exclaimed,  "  you  mean  to  say  it  was 
Madame  Coccoz,  the  widow  of  the  almanac- 
peddler  ?  " 

"  Herself,  Monsieur !  The  carriage-door  was 
open  for  a  minute  to  let  her  little  boy,  who  had  just 
come  from  I  don't  know  where,  get  in.  She  hasn't 
changed  scarcely  at  all.  Well,  why  should  those 
women  change  ? — they  never  worry  themselves 
about  anything.  Only  the  Coccoz  woman  looks  a 
little  fatter  than  she  used  to  be.  And  the  idea  of  a 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  87 

woman  that  was  taken  in  here  out  of  pure  charity 
coming  to  show  off  her  velvets  and  diamonds  in 
a  carriage  with  a  crest  painted  on  it !  Isn't  it 
shameful  !  " 

"  Therese  !  "  I  cried,  in  a  terrible  voice,  "  if  you 
ever  speak  to  me  again  about  that  lady  except  in 
terms  of  the  deepest  respect,  you  and  I  will  fall  out  ! 
.  .  .  Bring  me  the  Sevres  vases  to  put  those  violets 
in,  which  now  give  the  City  of  Books  a  charm  it 
never  had  before." 

While  Therese  went  off  with  a  sigh  to  get  the 
Sevres  vases,  I  continued  to  contemplate  those 
beautiful  scattered  violets,  whose  odour  spread  all 
about  me  like  the  perfume  of  some  sweet  presence, 
some  charming  soul ;  and  I  asked  myself  how  it  had 
been  possible  for  me  never  to  recognise  Madame 
Coccoz  in  the  person  of  the  Princess  Trepof.  But 
that  vision  of  the  young  widow,  showing  me  her 
little  child  on  the  stairs,  had  been  a  very  rapid  one. 
I  had  much  more  reason  to  reproach  myself  for 
having  passed  by  a  gracious  and  lovely  soul  without 
knowing  it. 

"  Bonnard,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  thou  knowest  how 
to  decipher  old  texts ;  but  thou  dost  not  know  how 
to  read  in  the  Book  of  Life.  That  giddy  little 
Madame  Trepof,  whom  thou  once  believed  to 
possess  no  more  soul  than  a  bird,  has  expended, 
in  pure  gratitude,  more  zeal  and  finer  tact  than 


88  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD 

thou  didst  ever  show  for  anybody's  sake.  Right 
royally  hath  she  repaid  thee  for  the  log-fire  of 
her  churching-day  ! 

"  Therese  !  Awhile  ago  you  were  a  magpie  ; 
now  you  are  becoming  a  tortoise  !  Come  and  give 
some  water  to  these  Parmese  violets." 


PART  II 
THE  DAUGHTER  OF  CLEMENTINE 


I 

THE  FAIRY 

HEN  I  left  the  train  at  the  Melun 
station,  night  had  already  spread  its 
peace  over  the  silent  country.  The 
soil,  heated  through  all  the  long 
day  by  a  strong  sun — by  a  "  gros 
soltil,"  as  the  harvesters  of  the  Val  de  Vire  say 
— still  exhaled  a  warm  heavy  smell.  Lush  dense 
odours  of  grass  passed  over  the  level  of  the 
fields.  I  brushed  away  the  dust  of  the  railway 
carriage,  and  joyfully  inhaled  the  pure  air.  My 
travelling-bag — filled  by  my  housekeeper  with 
linen  and  various  small  toilet  articles,  munditiisy 
seemed  so  light  in  my  hand  that  I  swung  it  about 
just  as  a  schoolboy  swings  his  strapped  package  of 
rudimentary  books  when  the  class  is  let  out. 

Would  to  Heaven  that  I  were  *gain  a  little  urchin 
at  school !  But  it  is  fully  fifty  years  since  my  good 
dead  mother  made  me  some  tartines  of  bread  and 

91 


92  THE  CRIME  OF 

preserves,  and  placed  them  in  a  basket  of  which 
she  slipped  the  handle  over  my  arm,  and  then 
led  me,  thus  prepared,  to  the  school  kept  by  Mon- 
sieur Douloir,  at  a  corner  of  the  Passage  du  Com- 
merce well  known  to  the  sparrows,  between  a  court 
and  a  garden.  The  enormous  Monsieur  Douloir 
smiled  upon  us  genially,  and  patted  my  cheek  to 
show,  no  doubt,  the  affectionate  interest  which 
my  first  appearance  had  inspired.  But  when  my 
mother  had  passed  out  of  the  court,  startling  the 
sparrows  as  she  went,  Monsieur  Douloir  ceased  to 
smile — he  showed  no  more  affectionate  interest ; 
he  appeared,  on  the  contrary,  to  consider  me  as 
a  very  troublesome  little  fellow.  I  discovered,  later 
on,  that  he  entertained  the  same  feelings  towards 
all  his  pupils.  He  distributed  whacks  of  his  ferule 
with  an  agility  no  one  could  have  expected  on 
the  part  of  so  corpulent  a  person.  But  his  first 
aspect  of  tender  interest  invariably  reappeared 
when  he  spoke  to  any  of  our  mothers  in  our  pre- 
sence ;  and  always  at  such  times,  while  warmly 
praising  our  remarkable  aptitudes,  he  would  cast 
down  upon  us  a  look  of  intense  affection.  Still, 
those  were  happy  days  which  I  passed  on  the  benches 
of  Monsieur  Douloir  with  my  little  playfellows, 
who,  like  myself,  cried  and  laughed  by  turns  with 
all  their  might,  from  morning  till  evening. 

After  a  whole  half-century  these  souvenirs  float 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  93 

up  again,  fresh  and  bright  as  ever,  to  the  surface  of 
memory,  under  this  starry  sky,  whose  face  has  in  no 
wise  changed  since  then,  and  whose  serene  and 
immutable  lights  will  doubtless  see  many  other 
schoolboys  such  as  I  was  slowly  turn  into  grey- 
headed savants,  afflicted  with  catarrh. 

Stars,  who  have  shone  down  upon  each  wise  or 
foolish  head  among  all  my  forgotten  ancestors, 
it  is  under  your  soft  light  that  I  now  feel  stir  with- 
in me  a  certain  poignant  regret !  I  would  that  I 
could  have  a  son  who  might  be  able  to  see  you 
when  I  shall  see  you  no  more.  How  I  should  love 
him  !  Ah  !  such  a  son  would — what  am  I  saying  ? — 
why,  he  would  be  now  just  twenty  years  old  if 
you  had  only  been  willing,  Clementine — you  whose 
cheeks  used  to  look  so  ruddy  under  your  pink  hood  ! 
But  you  married  that  young  bank  clerk,  Noel 
Alexandre,  who  made  so  many  millions  afterwards  ! 
I  never  met  you  again  after  your  marriage,  Clemen- 
tine, but  I  can  see  you  now,  with  your  bright  curls 
and  your  pink  hood. 

A  looking-glass !  a  looking-glass !  a  looking-glass ! 
Really,  it  would  be  curious  to  see  what  I  look  like 
now,  with  my  white  hair,  sighing  Clementine's 
name  to  the  stars  !  Still,  it  is  not  right  to  end  with 
sterile  irony  the  thought  begun  in  the  spirit  of  faith 
and  love.  No,  Clementine,  if  your  name  came  to 
my  lips  by  chance  this  beautiful  night,  be  it  for  ever 


94  THE  CRIME  OF 

blessed,  your  dear  name  !  and  may  you  ever,  as  a 
happy  mother,  a  happy  grandmother,  enjoy  to  the 
very  end  of  life  with  your  rich  husband  the  utmost 
degree  of  that  happiness  which  you  had  the  right 
to  believe  you  could  not  win  with  the  poor  young 
scholar  who  loved  you !  If — though  I  cannot 
even  now  imagine  it — if  your  beautiful  hair  has 
become  white,  Clementine,  bear  worthily  the  bundle 
of  keys  confided  to  you  by  Noel  Alexandre,  and  im- 
part to  your  grandchildren  the  knowledge  of  all 
domestic  virtues ! 

Ah !  beautiful  Night !  She  rules,  with  such 
noble  repose,  over  men  and  animals  alike,  kindly 
loosed  by  her  from  the  yoke  of  daily  toil ;  and  even 
I  feel  her  beneficent  influence,  although  my  habits 
of  sixty  years  have  so  changed  me  that  I  can  feel 
most  things  only  through  the  signs  which  represent 
them.  My  world  is  wholly  formed  of  words — so 
much  of  a  philologist  I  have  become  !  Each  one 
dreams  the  dream  of  life  in  his  own  way.  I  have 
dreamed  it  in  my  library  ;  and  when  the  hour  shall 
come  in  which  I  must  leave  this  world,  may  it 
please  God  to  take  me  from  my  ladder — from 
before  my  shelves  of  books  ! .  .  . 

"  Well,  well !  it  is  really  himself,  pardieu  !  How 
are  you,  Monsieur  Sylvestre  Bonnard  ?  And  where 
have  you  been  travelling  to  all  this  time,  over  the 
country,  while  I  was  waiting  for  you  at  the  station 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  95 

with  my  cabriolet  ?  You  missed  me  when  the 
train  came  in,  and  I  was  driving  back,  quite  dis- 
appointed, to  Lusance.  Give  me  your  valise,  and 
get  up  here  beside  me  in  the  carriage.  Why,  d<7 
you  know  it  is  fully  seven  kilometres  from  here  to 
the  chateau  ?  " 

Who  addresses  me  thus,  at  the  very  top  of  his 
voice  from  the  height  of  his  cabriolet  ?  Monsieur 
Paul  de  Gabry,  nephew  and  heir  of  Monsieur 
Honore  de  Gabry,  peer  of  France  in  1842,  who 
recently  died  at  Monaco.  And  it  was  precisely  to 
Monsieur  Paul  de  Gabry's  house  that  I  was  going 
with  that  valise  of  mine,  so  carefully  strapped  by 
my  housekeeper.  This  excellent  young  man  has 
just  inherited,  conjointly  with  his  two  brothers- 
in-law,  the  property  of  his  uncle,  who,  belonging 
to  a  very  ancient  family  of  distinguished  lawyers, 
had  accumulated  in  his  chateau  at  Lusance  a  library 
rich  in  MSS.,  some  dating  back  to  the  fourteenth 
century.  It  was  for  the  purpose  of  making  an 
inventory  and  a  catalogue  of  these  MSS.  that  I  had 
come  to  Lusance  at  the  urgent  request  of  Monsieur 
Paul  de  Gabry,  whose  father,  a  perfect  gentleman 
and  distinguished  bibliophile,  had  maintained  the 
most  pleasant  relations  with  me  during  his  lifetime. 
To  tell  the  truth,  Monsieur  Paul  has  not  inherited 
the  fine  tastes  of  his  father.  Monsieur  Paul  likes 
sporting ;  he  is  a  great  authority  on  horses  and 


96  THE  CRIME  OF 

dogs  ;  and  I  much  fear  that  of  all  the  sciences 
capable  of  satisfying  or  of  duping  the  inexhaustible 
curiosity  of  mankind,  those  of  the  stable  and  the 
dog-kennel  are  the  only  ones  thoroughly  mastered 
by  him. 

I  cannot  say  I  was  surprised  to  meet  him,  since  we 
had  made  a  rendezvous ;  but  I  acknowledge  that  I 
had  become  so  preoccupied  with  my  own  thoughts 
that  I  had  forgotten  all  about  the  Chateau  de 
Lusance  and  its  inhabitants,  and  that  the  voice 
of  the  gentleman  calling  out  to  me  as  I  started 
to  follow  the  country  road  winding  away  before  me 
— "  un  bon  ruban  de  queue"  as  they  say — had  given 
me  quite  a  start. 

I  fear  my  face  must  have  betrayed  my  incon- 
gruous distraction  by  a  certain  stupid  expression 
which  it  is  apt  to  assume  in  most  of  my  social 
transactions.  My  valise  was  pulled  up  into  the 
carriage,  and  I  followed  my  valise.  My  host  pleased 
rne  by  his  straightforward  simplicity. 

"  I  don't  know  anything  myself  about  your  old 
parchments,"  he  said  ;  "  but  I  think  you  will  find 
some  folks  to  talk  to  at  the  house.  Besides  the  cure, 
who  writes  books  himself,  and  the  doctor,  who  is 
a  very  good  fellow — although  a  radical — you  will 
meet  somebody  able  to  keep  you  company.  I 
mean  my  wife.  She  is  not  a  very  learned  woman, 
but  there  are  few  things  which  she  can't  divine 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  97 

pretty  well.  Then  I  count  upon  being  able  to  keep 
you  with  us  long  enough  to  make  you  acquainted 
with  Mademoiselle  Jeanne,  who  has  the  fingers 
of  a  magician  and  the  soul  of  an  angel." 

'*  And  is  this  delightfully  gifted  young  lady  one 
of  your  family  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Not  at  all,"  replied  Monsieur  Paul. 

"  Then  she  is  just  a  friend  of  yours  ?  "  I  persisted, 
rather  stupidly. 

"  She  has  lost  both  her  father  and  mother," 
answered  Monsieur  de  Gabry,  keeping  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  ears  of  his  horse,  whose  hoofs  rang 
loudly  over  the  road  blue-tinted  by  the  moonshine. 
"  Her  father  managed  to  get  us  into  some  very 
serious  trouble  ;  and  we  did  not  get  off  with  a 
fright  either  !  " 

Then  he  shook  his  head,  and  changed  the  subject. 
He  gave  me  due  warning  of  the  ruinous  condition  in 
which  I  should  find  the  chateau  and  the  park  ;  they 
had  been  absolutely  deserted  for  thirty-two  years. 

I  learned  from  him  that  Monsieur  Honore  de 
Gabry,  his  uncle,  had  been  on  very  bad  terms  with 
some  poachers,  whom  he  used  to  shoot  at  like 
rabbits.  One  of  them,  a  vindictive  peasant,  who 
had  received  a  whole  charge  of  shot  in  his  face,  lay 
in  wait  for  the  Seigneur  one  evening  behind  the 
trees  of  the  mall,  and  very  nearly  succeeded  in 
killing  him,  for  the  ball  took  off  the  tip  of  his  ear. 


98  THE  CRIME  OF 

"  My  uncle,"  Monsieur  Paul  continued,  "  tried 
to  discover  who  had  fired  the  shot ;  but  he  could 
not  see  any  one,  and  he  walked  back  slowly  to  the 
house.  The  day  after  he  called  his  steward,  and 
ordered  him  to  close  up  the  manor  and  the  park, 
and  allow  no  living  soul  to  enter.  He  expressly 
forbade  that  anything  should  be  touched,  or  looked 
after,  or  any  repairs  made  on  the  estate  during 
his  absence.  He  added,  between  his  teeth,  that  he 
would  return  at  Easter,  or  Trinity  Sunday,  as  they 
say  in  the  song  ;  and,  just  as  the  song  has  it,  Trinity 
Sunday  passed  without  a  sign  of  him.  He  died 
last  year  at  Monaco  ;  my  brother-in-law  and  myself 
were  the  first  to  enter  the  chateau  after  it  had  been 
abandoned  for  thirty-two  years.  We  found  a 
chestnut-tree  growing  in  the  middle  of  the  parlour. 
As  for  the  park,  it  was  useless  trying  to  visit  it, 
because  there  were  no  longer  any  paths  or  alleys." 

My  companion  ceased  to  speak  ;  and  only  the 
regulai  hoof-beat  of  the  trotting  horse,  and  the 
chirping  of  insects  in  the  grass,  broke  the  silence. 
On  either  hand,  the  sheaves  standing  in  the  fields 
took,  in  the  vague  moonlight,  the  appearance  of 
tall  white  women  kneeling  down  ;  and  I  abandoned 
myself  awhile  to  those  wonderful  childish  fancies 
which  the  charm  of  night  always  suggests.  After 
driving  under  the  heavy  shadows  of  the  mall,  we 
turned  to  the  right  and  rolled  up  a  lordlv  avenue 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  99 

at  the  end  of  which  the  chateau  suddenly  rose  into 
view — a  black  mass,  with  turrets  en  poivriere.  We 
followed  a  sort  of  causeway,  which  gave  access  to 
the  court-of-honour,  and  which,  passing  over  a 
moat  full  of  running  water,  doubtless  replaced  a 
long-vanished  drawbridge.  The  loss  of  that  draw- 
bridge must  have  been,  I  think,  the  first  of  various 
humiliations  to  which  the  warlike  manor  had  been 
subjected  ere  being  reduced  to  that  pacific  aspect 
with  which  it  received  me.  The  stars  reflected 
themselves  with  marvellous  clearness  in  the  dark 
water.  Monsieur  Paul,  like  a  courteous  host, 
escorted  me  to  my  chamber  at  the  very  top  of  the 
building,  at  the  end  of  a  long  corridor  ;  and  then, 
excusing  himself  for  not  presenting  me  at  once 
to  his  wife  by  reason  of  the  lateness  ot  the  hour, 
bade  me  good-night. 

My  apartment,  painted  in  white,  and  hung  with 
chintz,  seemed  to  keep  some  traces  of  the  elegant 
gallantry  of  the  eighteenth  century.  A  heap  of 
still-glowing  ashes — which  testified  to  the  pains 
taken  to  dispel  humidity — filled  the  fireplace, 
whose  marble  mantelpiece  supported  a  bust  of 
Marie  Antoinette  in  biscuit.  Attached  to  the  frame 
of  the  tarnished  and  discoloured  mirror,  two  brass 
hooks,  that  had  once  doubtless  served  the  ladies 
of  old-fashioned  days  to  hang  their  chatelaines 
on,  seemed  to  offer  a  very  opportune  means  of 


ioo  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD 

suspending  my  watch,  which  I  took  care  to  wind 
up  beforehand ;  for,  contrary  to  the  opinion  of  the 
Thelemites,  I  hold  that  man  is  only  master  of  time, 
which  is  Life  itself,  when  he  has  divided  it  into  hours, 
minutes  and  seconds — that  is  to  say,  into  parts  pro- 
portioned to  the  brevity  of  human  existence. 

And  I  thought  to  myself  that  life  really  seems 
short  to  us  only  because  we  measure  it  irrationally 
by  our  own  mad  hopes.  We  have  all  of  us,  like  the 
old  man  in  the  fable,  a  new  wing  to  add  to  our 
building.  I  want,  for  example,  before  I  die,  to 
finish  my  "  History  of  the  Abbots  of  Saint-Germain- 
des-Pres."  The  time  God  allots  to  each  one  of 
us  is  like  a  precious  tissue  which  we  embroider  as 
we  best  know  how.  I  had  begun  my  woof  with 
all  sorts  of  philological  illustrations.  ...  So  my 
thoughts  wandered  on  ;  and  at  last,  as  I  bound  my 
foulard  about  my  head,  the  notion  of  Time  led  me 
back  to  the  past ;  and  for  the  second  time  within 
the  same  round  of  the  dial  I  thought  of  you,  Clemen- 
tine— to  bless  you  again  in  your  posterity,  if  you 
have  any,  before  blowing  out  my  candle  and  falling 
asleep  amidst  the  chanting  of  the  frogs. 


n 

DURING  breakfast  I  had  many  opportunities  to 
appreciate  the  good  taste,  tact,  and  intelligence  of 
Madame  de  Gabry,  who  told  me  that  the  chateau 
had  its  ghosts,  and  was  especially  haunted  by  the 
"  Lady-with-three-wrinkles-in-her-back,"  a  poisoner 
during  her  lifetime,  and  thereafter  a  Soul-in-pain. 
I  could  never  describe  how  much  wit  and  anima- 
tion she  gave  to  this  old  nurse's  tale.  We  took  OUT 
coffee  on  the  terrace,  whose  balusters,  clasped  and 
forcibly  torn  away  from  their  stone  coping  by  a 
rigorous  growth  of  ivy,  remained  suspended  in  the 
grasp  of  the  amorous  plant  like  bewildered  Athenian 
women  in  the  arms  of  ravishing  Centaurs. 

The  chateau,  shaped  something  like  a  four- 
wheeled  waggon,  with  a  turret  at  each  of  the  four 
angles,  had  lost  all  original  character  by  reason  of 
repeated  remodellings.  It  was  merely  a  fine  spacious 
building,  nothing  more.  It  did  not  appear  to  me 
to  have  suffered  much  damage  during  its  abandon- 
ment of  thirty-two  years.  But  when  Madame  de 
Gabry  conducted  me  into  the  great  salon  of  the 
ground-floor,  I  saw  that  the  planking  was  bulged 

lox  V 


102  THE  CRIME  OF 

in  and  out,  the  plinths  rotten,  the  wainscotings 
split  apart,  the  paintings  of  the  piers  turned  black 
and  hanging  more  than  half  out  of  their  settings. 
A  chestnut-tree,  after  forcing  up  the  planks  of  the 
floor,  had  grown  tall  under  the  ceiling,  and  was 
reaching  out  its  large-leaved  branches  towards  the 
glassless  windows. 

This  spectacle  was  not  devoid  of  charm  ;  but  I 
could  not  look  at  it  without  anxiety,  as  I  remembered 
that  the  rich  library  of  Monsieur  Honore  de  Gabry, 
in  an  adjoining  apartment,  must  have  been  exposed 
for  the  same  length  of  time  to  the  same  forces  of 
decay.  Yet,  as  I  looked  at  the  young  chestnut- 
tree  in  the  salon,  I  could  not  but  admire  the  magni- 
ficent vigour  of  Nature,  and  that  resistless  power 
which  forces  every  germ  to  develop  into  life.  On 
the  other  hand  I  felt  saddened  to  think  that,  what- 
ever effort  we  scholars  may  make  to  preserve  dead 
things  from  passing  away,  we  are  labouring  pain- 
fully in  vain.  Whatever  has  lived  becomes  the  neces- 
sary food  of  new  existences.  And  the  Arab  who 
builds  himself  a  hut  out  of  the  marble  fragments  of 
a  Palmyra  temple  is  really  more  of  a  philosopher 
than  all  the  guardians  of  museums  at  London, 
Munich,  or  Paris. 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  103 

August  II. 

ALL  daylong  I  have  been  classifying  MSS.  .  .  . 
The  sun  came  in  through  the  lofty  uncurtained 
windows ;  and,  during  my  reading,  often  very 
interesting,  I  could  hear  the  languid  bumble- 
bees bump  heavily  against  the  windows,  and  the 
flies,  intoxicated  with  light  and  heat,  making  their 
wings  hum  in  circles  round  my  head.  So  loud 
became  their  humming  about  three  o'clock  that  I 
looked  up  from  the  document  I  was  reading — a 
document  containing  very  precious  materials  for 
the  history  of  Melun  in  the  thirteenth  century — 
to  watch  the  concentric  movements  of  those  tiny 
creatures.  "  Bestiotis"  Lafontaine  calls  them  :  he 
found  this  form  of  the  word  in  the  old  popular 
speech,  whence  also  the  term,  tapisserie-a-bestions, 
applied  to  figured  tapestry.  I  was  compelled  to 
confess  that  the  effect  of  heat  upon  the  wings  of  a 
fly  is  totally  different  from  that  it  exerts  upon  the 
brain  of  a  paleographical  archivist ;  for  I  found  it 
very  difficult  to  think,  and  a  rather  pleasant  languor 
weighing  upon  me,  from  which  I  could  rouse 
myself  only  by  a  very  determined  effort.  The 
dinner-bell  then  startled  me  in  the  midst  of  my 
labours  ;  and  I  had  barely  time  to  put  on  my  new 
dress-coat,  so  as  to  make  a  respectable  appearance 
Before  Madame  de  Gabry. 


104  THE  CRIME  OF 

The  repast,  generously  served,  seemed  to  prolong 
itself  for  my  benefit.  I  am  more  than  a  fair  judge 
of  wine ;  and  my  hostess,  who  discovered  my 
knowledge  in  this  regard,  was  friendly  enough  to 
open  a  certain  bottle  of  Chateau-Margaux  in  my 
honour.  With  deep  respect  I  drank  of  this  famous 
and  knightly  old  wine,  which  comes  from  the 
slopes  of  Bordeaux,  and  of  which  the  flavour  and 
exhilarating  power  are  beyond  all  praise.  The 
ardour  of  it  spread  gently  through  my  veins,  and 
filled  me  with  an  almost  juvenile  animation.  Seated 
beside  Madame  de  Gabry  on  the  terrace,  in  the 
gloaming  which  gave  a  charming  melancholy  to  the 
park,  and  lent  to  every  object  an  air  of  mystery, 
I  took  pleasure  in  communicating  my  impressions 
of  the  scene  to  my  hostess.  I  discoursed  with  a 
vivacity  quite  remarkable  on  the  part  of  a  man 
so  devoid  of  imagination  as  I  am.  I  described  to 
her  spontaneously,  without  quoting  from  any  old 
texts,  the  caressing  melancholy  of  the  evening,  and 
the  beauty  of  that  natal  earth  which  feeds  us,  not 
only  with  bread  and  wine,  but  also  with  ideas, 
sentiments,  beliefs,  and  which  will  at  last  take  us 
all  back  to  her  maternal  breast  again,  like  so  many 
tired  little  children  at  the  close  of  a  long  day. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  the  kind  lady,  "  yon  see  these 
old  towers,  those  trees,  that  sky ;  is  it  not  quite 
natural  that  the  personages  of  the  popular  tales 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  105 

and  folk-songs  should  have  been  evoked  by  such 
scenes  ?  Why,  over  there  is  the  very  path  which 
Little  Red  Riding-hood  followed  when  she  went 
to  the  woods  to  pick  nuts.  Across  this  changeful 
and  always  vapoury  sky  the  fairy  chariots  used  to 
roll ;  and  the  north  tower  might  have  sheltered 
under  its  pointed  roof  that  same  old  spinning 
woman  whose  distaff  pricked  the  Sleeping  Beauty 
in  the  Wood." 

I  continued  to  muse  upon  her  pretty  fancies, 
while  Monsieur  Paul  related  to  me,  as  he  puffed  a 
very  strong  cigar,  the  history  of  some  suit  he  had 
brought  against  the  commune  about  a  water- 
right.  Madame  de  Gabry,  feeling  the  chill  night 
air,  began  to  shiver  under  the  shawl  her  husband 
had  wrapped  about  her,  and  left  us  to  go  to  her 
room.  I  then  decided,  instead  of  going  to  my 
own,  to  return  to  the  library  and  continue  my 
examination  of  the  manuscripts.  In  spite  of  the 
protests  of  Monsieur  Paul,  I  entered  what  I  may 
call,  in  old-fashioned  phrase,  "  the  book-room," 
and  started  to  work  by  the  light  of  a  lamp. 

After  having  read  fiftectn  pages,  evidently  written 
by  some  ignorant  and  careless  scribe,  for  I  could 
scarcely  discern  their  meaning,  I  plunged  my  hand 
into  the  pocket  of  my  coat  to  get  my  snuff-box  ; 
but  this  movement,  usually  so  natural  and  almost 
instinctive,  this  time  cost  me  some  effort  and  even 


106  THE  CRIME  OF 

fatigue.  Nevertheless,  I  got  out  the  silver  box, 
and  took  from  it  a  pinch  of  the  odorous  powder, 
which,  somehow  or  other,  I  managed  to  spill  all 
over  my  shirt-bosom  under  my  baffled  nose.  I  am 
sure  my.  nose  must  have  expressed  its  disappoint- 
ment, for  it  is  a  very  expressive  nose.  More  than 
once  it  has  betrayed  my  secret  thoughts,  and  espe- 
cially upon  a  certain  occasion  at  the  public  library 
of  Coutances,  where  I  discovered,  right  in  front  of 
my  colleague  Brioux,  the  "  Cartulary  of  Notre- 
Dame-des-Anges." 

What  a  delight !  My  little  eyes  remained  as  dull 
and  expressionless  as  ever  behind  my  spectacles. 
But  at  the  mere  sight  of  my  thick  pug-nose,  which 
quivered  with  joy  and  pride,  Brioux  knew  that  I 
had  found  something.  He  noted  the  volume  I 
was  looking  at,  observed  the  place  where  I  put  it 
back,  pounced  upon  it  as  soon  as  I  turned  my  heel, 
copied  it  secretly,  and  published  it  in  haste,  for 
the  sake  of  playing  me  a  trick.  But  his  edition 
swarms  with  errors,  and  I  had  the  satisfaction  of 
afterwards  criticising  some  of  the  gross  blunders  he 
made. 

But  to  come  back  to  the  point  at  which  I  left  off  : 
I  began  to  suspect  that  I  was  getting  very  sleepy 
indeed.  I  was  looking  at  a  chart  of  which  the  in- 
terest may  be  divined  from  t'le  fact  that  it  contained 
mentioo  of  a  hutch  sold  to  Jehan  d'Estonville, 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  107 

priest,  in  1312.  But  although,  even  then,  I  could 
recognise  the  importance  of  the  document,  I  did 
not  give  it  that  attention  it  so  strongly  invited. 
My  eyes  would  keep  turning,  against  my  will, 
towards  a  certain  corner  of  the  table  where  there 
was  nothing  whatever  interesting  to  a  learned  mind. 
There  was  only  a  big  German  book  there,  bound 
in  pigskin,  with  brass  studs  on  the  sides,  and  very 
thick  cording  upon  the  back.  It  was  a  fine  copy 
of  a  compilation  which  has  little  to  recommend  it 
except  the  wood  engravings  it  contains,  and  which 
is  well  known  as  the  "  Cosmography  of  Munster." 
This  volume,  with  its  covers  slightly  open,  was 
placed  upon  edge,  with  the  back  upwards. 

I  could  not  say  for  how  long  I  had  been  staring 
causelessly  at  the  sixteenth-century  folio,  when  my 
eyes  were  captivated  by  a  sight  so  extraordinary 
that  even  a  person  as  devoid  of  imagination  as 
I  could  not  but  have  been  greatly  astonished 
by  it. 

I  perceived,  all  of  a  sudden,  without  having 
noticed  her  coming  into  the  room,  a  little  creature 
seated  on  the  back  of  the  book,  with  one  knee  bent 
and  one  leg  hanging  down — somewhat  in  the 
attitude  of  the  amazons  of  Hyde  Park  or  the  Bois 
de  Boulogne  on  horseback.  She  was  so  small  that 
her  swinging  foot  did  not  reach  the  table,  over  which 
the  trail  of  her  dress  extended  in  a  serpentine  line. 


io8  THE  CRIME  OF 

But  her  face  and  figure  were  those  of  an  adult.  The 
fulness  of  her  corsage  and  the  roundness  of  her 
waist  could  leave  no  doubt  of  that,  even  for  an  old 
savant  like  myself.  I  will  venture  to  add  that  she 
was  very  handsome,  with  a  proud  mien  ;  for  my 
iconographic  studies  have  long  accustomed  me  to 
recognise  at  once  the  perfection  of  a  type  and 
the  character  of  a  physiognomy.  The  countenance 
of  this  lady  who  had  seated  herself  inopportunely 
on  the  back  of  a  "  Cosmography  of  Munster  "  ex- 
pressed a  mingling  of  haughtiness  and  mischievous- 
ness.  She  had  the  air  of  a  queen,  but  a  capricious 
queen  ;  and  I  judged,  from  the  mere  expression 
of  her  eyes,  that  she  was  accustomed  to  wield  great 
authority  somewhere,  in  a  very  whimsical  manner. 
Her  mouth  was  imperious  and  mocking,  and  those 
blue  eyes  of  hers  seemed  to  laugh  in  a  disquieting 
way  under  her  finely  arched  black  eyebrows.  I  have 
always  heard  that  black  eyebrows  are  very  becoming 
to  blondes ;  and  this  lady  was  very  blonde.  On 
the  whole,  the  impression  she  gave  me  was  one  of 
greatness. 

It  may  seem  odd  to  say  that  a  person  who  was  no 
taller  than  a  wine-bottle,  and  who  might  have  been 
hidden  in  my  coat  pocket — but  that  it  would  have 
been  very  disrespectful  to  put  her  in  it — gave  me 
precisely  an  idea  of  greatness.  But  in  the  fine 
proportions  of  the  lady  seated  upon  the  "  Cosmo- 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  109 

graphy  of  Munster  "  there  was  such  a  proud  ele- 
gance, such  a  harmonious  majesty,  and  she  main- 
tained an  attitude  at  once  so  easy  and  so  noble, 
that  she  really  seemed  to  me  a  very  great  person. 
Although  my  ink-bottle,  which  she  examined  with 
an  expression  of  such  mockery  as  appeared  to 
indicate  that  she  knew  in  advance  every  word  that 
could  ever  come  out  of  it  at  the  end  of  my  pen,  was 
for  her  a  deep  basin  in  which  she  would  have 
blackened  her  gold-clocked  pink  stockings  up  to 
the  garter,  1  can  assure  you  that  she  was  great, 
and  imposing  even  in  her  sprightliness. 

Her  costume,  worthy  of  her  face,  was  extremely 
magnificent ;  it  consisted  of  a  robe  of  gold-and- 
silver  brocade,  and  a  mantle  of  nacarat  velvet,  lined 
with  vair.  Her  head-dress  was  a  sort  of  bennin, 
with  two  high  points ;  and  pearls  of  splendid  lustre 
made  it  bright  and  luminous  as  a  crescent  moon. 
Her  little  white  hand  held  a  wand.  That  wand 
drew  my  attention  very  strongly,  because  my 
archaeological  studies  had  taught  me  to  recognise 
with  certainty  every  sign  by  which  the  notable 
personages  of  legend  and  of  history  are  distinguished. 
This  knowledge  came  to  my  aid  during  various 
very  queer  conjectures  with  which  I  was  labouring. 
I  examined  the  wand,  and  saw  that  it  appeared 
to  have  been  cut  from  a  branch  of  hazel. 

"  Then   it    is  a  fairy's   wand,"    I    said    to    my- 


no  THE  CRIME  OF 

self ;  "  consequently  the  lady  who  carries  it  is  a 
fairy." 

Happy  at  thus  discovering  what  sort  of  a  person 
was  before  me,  I  tried  to  collect  my  mind  sufficiently 
to  make  her  a  graceful  compliment.  It  would 
have  given  me  much  satisfaction,  I  confess,  if  I 
could  have  talked  to  her  about  the  part  taken  by 
her  people,  not  less  in  the  life  of  the  Saxon  and 
Germanic  races,  than  in  that  of  the  Latin  Occident. 
Such  a  dissertation,  it  appeared  to  me,  would  have 
been  an  ingenious  method  of  thanking  the  lady 
for  having  thus  appeared  to  an  old  scholar,  contrary 
to  the  invariable  custom  of  her  kindred,  who  never 
show  themselves  but  to  innocent  children  or  ignorant 
village-folk. 

Because  one  happens  to  be  a  fairy,  one  is  none  the 
less  a  woman,  I  said  to  myself ;  and  since  Madame 
Recamier,  according  to  what  I  heard  J.  J.  Ampere 
say,  used  to  blush  with  pleasure  when  the  little 
chimney-sweeps  opened  their  eyes  as  wide  as  they 
could  to  look  at  her,  surely  the  supernatural  lady 
seated  upon  the  "  Cosmography  of  Munster " 
might  feel  flattered  to  hear  an  erudite  man  dis- 
course learnedly  about  her,  as  about  a  medal,  a  seal, 
a  fibula,  or  a  token.  But  such  an  undertaking, 
which  would  have  cost  my  timidity  a  great  deal, 
became  totally  out  of  the  question  when  I  observed 
the  Lady  of  the  Cosmography  suddenly  take  from 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  in 

an  alms-purse  hanging  at  her  girdle  the  very  smallest 
nuts  I  had  ever  seen,  crack  the  shells  between  her 
teeth,  and  throw  them  at  my  nose,  while  she 
nibbled  the  kernels  with  the  gravity  of  a  sucking 
child. 

At  this  conjuncture,  I  did  what  the  dignity  of 
science  demanded  of  me — I  remained  silent.  But 
the  nut-shells  caused  such  a  painful  tickling  that  I 
put  up  my  hand  to  my  nose,  and  found,  to  my 
great  surprise,  that  my  spectacles  were  straddling 
the  very  end  of  it — so  that  I  was  actually  looking 
at  the  lady,  not  through  my  spectacles,  but  over 
them.  This  was  incomprehensible,  because  my 
eyes,  worn  out  over  old  texts,  cannot  ordinarily 
distinguish  anything  without  glasses — could  not 
tell  a  melon  from  a  decanter,  though  the  two  were 
placed  close  up  to  my  nose. 

That  nose  of  mine,  remarkable  for  its  size,  its 
shape,  and  its  coloration,  legitimately  attracted  the 
attention  of  the  fairy  ;  for  she  seized  my  goose- 
quill  pen,  which  was  sticking  up  from  the  ink- 
bottle  like  a  plume,  and  she  began  to  pass  the 
feather-end  of  that  pen  over  my  nose.  I  had  had 
more  than  once,  in  company,  occasion  to  suffer 
cheerfully  from  the  innocent  mischief  of  young 
ladies,  who  made  me  join  their  games,  and  would 
offer  me  their  cheeks  to  kiss  through  the  back  of  a 
chair,  or  invite  me  to  blow  out  a  candle  which 


H2  THE  CRIME  OF 

they  would  lift  suddenly  above  the  range  of  my 
breath.  But  until  that  moment  no  person  of  the 
fair  sex  had  ever  subjected  me  to  such  a  whimsical 
piece  of  familiarity  as  that  of  tickling  my  nose  with 
my  own  feather  pen.  Happily  I  remembered  the 
maxim  of  my  late  grandfather,  who  was  accustomed 
to  say  that  everything  was  permissible  on  the  part 
of  ladies,  and  that  whatever  they  do  to  us  is  to  be 
regarded  as  a  grace  and  a  favour.  Therefore,  as  a 
grace  and  a  favour  I  received  the  nutshells  and  the 
titillations  with  my  own  pen,  and  I  tried  to  smile. 
Much  more  ! — I  even  found  speech. 

"  Madame,"  I  said,  with  dignified  politeness, 
"  you  accord  the  honour  of  a  visit  not  to  a  silly 
child,  nor  to  a  boor,  but  to  a  bibliophile  who  is 
very  happy  to  make  your  acquaintance,  and  who 
knows  that  long  ago  you  used  to  make  elf-knots 
in  the  manes  of  mares  at  the  crib,  drink  the  milk 
from  the  skimming-pails,  slip  graines-d-gratter  down 
the  backs  of  our  great-grandmothers,  make  the 
hearth  sputter  in  the  faces  of  the  old  folks,  and, 
in  short,  fill  the  house  with  disorder  and  gaiety. 
You  can  also  boast  of  giving  the  nicest  frights  in 
the  world  to  lovers  who  stayed  out  in  the  woods 
too  late  of  evenings.  But  I  thought  you  had 
vanished  out  of  existence  at  least  three  centuries 
ago.  Can  it  really  be,  Madame,  that  you  are  still 
to  be  seen  in  this  age  of  railways  and  telegraphs  ? 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  113 

My  concierge,  who  used  to  be  a  nurse  in  her  young 
days,  does  not  know  your  story ;  and  my  little 
boy-neighbour,  whose  nose  is  still  wiped  for  him 
by  his  bonne,  declares  that  you  do  not  exist." 

"  What  do  you  yourself  think  about  it  ?  "  she 
cried,  in  a  silvery  voice,  straightening  up  her  royal 
little  figure  in  a  very  haughty  fashion,  and  whipping 
the  back  of  the  "  Cosmography  of  Munster  "  as 
though  it  were  a  hippogriff. 

"  I  don't  really  know,"  I  answered,  rubbing  my 
eyes. 

This  reply,  indicating  a  deeply  scientific  scep- 
ticism, had  the  most  deplorable  effect  upon  my 
questioner. 

"  Monsieur  Sylvestre  Bonnard,"  she  said  to  me, 
"  you  are  nothing  but  an  old  pedant.  I  always 
suspected  as  much.  The  smallest  little  ragamuffin 
who  goes  along  the  road  with  his  shirt-tail  sticking 
out  through  a  hole  in  his  pantaloons  knows  more 
about  me  than  all  the  old  spectacled  folks  in  your 
Institutes  and  your  Academies.  To  know  is  nothing 
at  all  ;  to  imagine  is  everything.  Nothing  exists 
except  that  which  is  imagined.  I  am  imaginary. 
That  is  what  it  is  to  exist,  I  should  think  !  I  am 
dreamed  of,  and  I  appear.  Everything  is  only 
dream ;  and  as  nobody  ever  dreams  about  you, 
Sylvestre  Bonnard,  it  is  you  who  do  not  exist.  I 
charm  the  world ;  I  am  everywhere — on  a  moon- 


ii4  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD 

beam,  in  the  trembling  of  a  hidden  spring,  in  the 
moving  of  leaves  that  murmur,  in  the  white  vapours 
that  rise  each  morning  from  the  hollow  meadow, 
in  the  thickets  of  pink  brier — everywhere  !  .  .  . 
I  am  seen  ;  I  am  loved.  There  are  sighs  uttered, 
weird  thrills  of  pleasure  felt  by  those  who  follow 
the  light  print  of  my  feet,  as  I  make  the  dead 
leaves  whisper.  I  make  the  little  children  smile  ; 
I  give  wit  to  the  dullest-minded  nurses.  Leaning 
above  the  cradles,  I  play,  I  comfort,  I  lull  to  sleep — 
and  you  doubt  whether  I  exist  !  Sylvestre  Bonnard, 
your  warm  coat  covers  the  hide  of  an  ass  !  " 

She  ceased  speaking  ;  her  delicate  nostrils  swelled 
with  indignation  ;  and  while  I  admired,  despite  my 
vexation,  the  heroic  anger  of  this  little  person,  she 
pushed  my  pen  about  in  the  ink-bottle,  backward 
and  forward,  like  an  oar,  and  then  suddenly  threw 
it  at  my  nose,  point  first. 

I  rubbed  my  face,  and  felt  it  all  covered  with  ink. 
She  had  disappeared.  My  lamp  was  extinguished. 
A  ray  of  moonlight  streamed  down  through  a 
window  and  descended  upon  the  "  Cosmography 
of  Munster."  A  strong  cool  wind,  which  had  arisen 
very  suddenly  without  my  knowledge,  was  blowing 
my  papers,  pens,  and  wafers  about.  My  table 
was  all  stained  with  ink.  I  had  left  my  window 
opt  n  during  the  storm.  What  an  imprudence  ! 


Ill 

I  WROTE  to  my  housekeeper,  as  I  promised,  that 
I  was  safe  and  sound.  But  I  took  good  care  not  to 
tell  her  that  I  had  caught  cold  from  going  to  sleep 
in  the  library  at  night  with  the  window  open  ;  for 
the  good  woman  would  have  been  as  unsparing  in 
her  remonstrances  to  me  as  parliaments  to  kings. 
"  At  your  age,  Monsieur,"  she  would  have  been  sure 
to  say,  "  one  ought  to  have  more  sense."  She  is 
simple  enough  to  believe  that  sense  grows  with 
age.  I  seem  to  her  an  exception  to  this  rule. 

Not  having  any  similar  motive  for  concealing  my 
experiences  from  Madame  de  Gabry,  I  told  her  all 
about  my  vision,  which  she  seemed  to  enjoy  very 
much. 

"  Why,  that  was  a  charming  dream  of  yours," 
she  said  ;  "  and  one  must  have  real  genius  to  dream 
such  a  dream." 

"  Then  I  am  a  real  genius  when  1  am  asleep,"  I 
responded. 

"  When  you  dream,"  she  replied  ;  "  and  you  are 
always  dreaming." 

I  know  that  Madame  de  Gabry,  in  making  this 

ill 


n6  THE  CRIME  OF 

remark,  only  wished  to  please  me  ;  but  that  inten- 
tion alone  deserves  my  utmost  gratitude  ;  and  it  is 
therefore  in  a  spirit  of  thankfulness  and  kindliest 
remembrance  that  I  write  down  her  words,  which 
I  will  read  over  and  over  again  until  my  dying  day, 
and  which  will  never  be  read  by  any  one  save  myself. 

I  passed  the  next  few  days  in  completing  the 
inventory  of  the  manuscripts  in  the  Lusance  library. 
Certain  confidential  observations  dropped  by  Mon- 
sieur Paul  de  Gabry,  however,  caused  me  some  pain- 
tul  surprise,  and  made  me  decide  to  pursue  the 
work  after  a  different  manner  from  that  in  which 
I  had  begun  it.  From  those  few  words  I  learned 
that  the  fortune  of  Monsieur  Honore  de  Gabry, 
which  had  been  badly  managed  for  many  years, 
and  subsequently  swept  away  to  a  large  extent 
through  the  failure  ot  a  banker  whose  name  I  do  not 
know,  had  been  transmitted  to  the  heirs  of  the  old 
French  nobleman  only  under  the  form  of  mortgaged 
real  estate  and  irrecoverable  assets. 

Monsieur  Paul,  by  agreement  with  his  joint  heirs, 
had  decided  to  sell  the  library,  and  I  was  intrusted 
with  the  task  of  making  arrangements  to  have  the 
sale  effected  upon  advantageous  terms.  But,  totally 
ignorant  as  I  was  of  all  business  methods  and  trade- 
customs,  I  thought  it  best  to  get  the  advice  of  a 
publisher  who  was  one  of  my  private  friends.  I 
wrote  him  at  once  to  come  and  join  me  at  Lusance  ; 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  117 

and  while  waiting  for  his  arrival  I  took  my  hat  and 
cane  and  made  visits  to  the  different  churches  of 
the  diocese,  in  several  of  which  I  knew  there  were 
certain  mortuary  inscriptions  to  be  found  which 
had  never  been  correctly  copied. 

So  I  left  my  hosts  and  departed  on  my  pilgrimage. 
Exploring  the  churches  and  the  cemeteries  every 
day,  visiting  the  parish  priests  and  the  village 
notaries,  supping  at  the  public  inns  with  peddlers 
and  cattle-dealers,  sleeping  at  night  between  sheets 
scented  with  lavender,  I  passed  one  whole  week  in 
the  quiet  but  profound  enjoyment  of  observing  the 
living  engaged  in  their  various  daily  occupations 
even  while  I  was  thinking  of  the  dead.  As  for  the 
purpose  of  my  researches,  I  made  only  a  few  mediocre 
discoveries,  which  caused  me  only  a  mediocre  joy, 
and  one  therefore  salubrious  and  not  at  all  fatiguing. 
I  copied  a  few  interesting  epitaphs  ;  and  I  added 
to  this  little  collection  a  few  recipes  for  cooking 
country  dishes,  which  a  certain  good  priest  kindly 
gave  me. 

With  these  riches,  I  returned  to  Lusance  ;  and  I 
crossed  the  court-of-honour  with  such  secret  satis- 
faction as  a  bourgeois  feels  on  entering  his  own 
home.  This  was  the  effect  of  the  kindness  of  my 
hosts ;  and  the  impression  I  received  on  crossing 
their  threshold  proves,  better  than  any  reasoning 
could  do,  the  excellence  of  their  hospitality. 


n8  THE  CRIME  OF 

I  entered  the  great  parlour  without  meeting 
anybody ;  and  the  young  chestnut-tree  there 
spreading  out  its  broad  leaves  seemed  to  me  like  an 
old  friend.  But  the  next  thing  which  I  saw — on 
the  pier-table — caused  me  such  a  shock  of  surprise 
that  I  readjusted  my  glasses  upon  my  nose  with 
both  hands  at  once,  and  then  felt  myself  over  so  as 
to  get  at  least  some  superficial  proof  of  my  own 
existence.  In  less  than  one  second  there  thronged 
into  my  mind  twenty  different  conjectures — the 
most  rational  of  which  was  that  I  had  suddenly 
become  crazy.  It  seemed  to  me  absolutely  im- 
possible that  what  I  was  looking  at  could  exist ; 
yet  it  was  equally  impossible  for  me  not  to  see  it  as  a 
thing  actually  existing.  What  caused  my  surprise 
was  resting  on  the  pier-table,  above  which  rose  a 
great  dull  speckled  mirror. 

I  saw  myself  in  that  mirror  ;  and  I  can  say  that  I 
saw  for  once  in  my  life  the  perfect  image  of  stupe- 
faction. But  I  made  proper  allowance  for  myself ; 
1  approved  myself  for  being  so  stupefied  by  a  really 
stupefying  thing. 

The  object  I  was  thus  examining  with  a  degree  of 
astonishment  that  all  my  reasoning  power  failed  to 
lessen,  obtruded  itself  on  my  attention  though  quite 
motionless.  The  persistence  and  fixity  of  the 
phenomenon  excluded  any  idea  of  hallucination.  I 
am  totally  exempt  from  all  nervous  disorders  capable 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  119 

of  influencing  the  sense  of  sight.  The  cause  of 
such  visual  disturbance  is,  I  think,  generally  due  to 
stomach  trouble  ;  and,  thank  God  !  I  have  an  ex- 
cellent stomach.  Moreover,  visual  illusions  are  ac- 
companied with  special  abnormal  conditions  which 
impress  the  victims  of  hallucination  themselves, 
and  inspire  them  with  a  sort  of  terror.  Now,  I 
felt  nothing  of  this  kind  ;  the  object  which  I  saw, 
although  seemingly  impossible  in  itself,  appeared 
to  me  under  all  the  natural  conditions  of  reality. 
1  observed  that  it  had  three  dimensions,  and  colours, 
and  that  it  cast  a  shadow.  Ah  !  how  I  stared  at  it ! 
The  water  came  into  my  eyes  so  that  I  had  to  wipe 
the  glasses  of  my  spectacles. 

Finally  I  found  myself  obliged  to  yield  to  the 
evidence,  and  to  affirm  that  I  had  really  before  my 
eyes  the  Fairy,  the  very  same  Fairy  I  had  been 
dreaming  of  in  the  library  a  few  evenings  before.  It 
was  she,  it  was  her  very  self,  I  assure  you  !  She  had 
the  same  air  of  child-queen,  the  same  proud  supple 
poise  ;  she  held  the  same  hazel  wand  in  her  hand  ; 
she  still  wore  her  double-peaked  head-dress,  and  the 
train  of  her  long  brocade  robe  undulated  about  her 
little  feet.  Same  face,  same  figure.  It  was  she 
indeed  ;  and  to  prevent  any  possible  doubt  of  it, 
she  was  seated  on  the  back  of  a  huge  old-fashioned 
book  strongly  resembling  the  "  Cosmography  of 
Munster."  Her  immobility  but  half  reassured  me  ; 


120  THE  CRIME  OF 

I  was  really  afraid  that  she  was  going  to  take  some 
more  nuts  out  of  her  alms-purse  and  throw  the  shells 
at  my  face. 

I  was  standing  there,  waving  my  hands  and  gap- 
ing, when  the  musical  and  laughing  voice  of  Madame 
de  Gabry  suddenly  rang  in  my  ears. 

"  So  you  are  examining  your  fairy,  Monsieur 
Bonnard  !  "  said  my  hostess.  "  Well,  do  you  think 
the  resemblance  good  ?  " 

It  was  very  quickly  said  ;  but  even  while  hearing 
it  I  had  time  to  perceive  that  my  fairy  was  a  statuette 
in  coloured  wax,  modelled  with  much  taste  and 
spirit  by  some  novice  hand.  But  the  phenomenon, 
even  thus  reduced  by  a  rational  explanation,  did  not 
cease  to  excite  my  surprise.  How,  and  by  whom, 
had  the  Lady  of  the  Cosmography  been  enabled 
to  assume  plastic  existence  ?  That  was  what 
remained  for  me  to  learn. 

Turning  towards  Madame  de  Gabry,  I  perceived 
that  she  was  not'  alone.  A  young  girl  dressed  in 
black  was  standing  beside  her.  She  had  large  intel- 
ligent eyes,  of  a  grey  as  sweet  as  that  of  the  sky  of  the 
Isle  of  France,  and  at  once  artless  and  characteristic 
in  their  expression.  At  the  extremities  of  her  rather 
thin  arms  were  fidgeting  uneasily  two  slender  hands, 
supple  but  slightly  red,  as  it  becomes  the  hands  of 
young  girls  to  be.  Sheathed  in  her  closely  fitting 
merino  robe,  she  had  the  slim  grace  of  a  young  tree  ; 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  121 

and  her  large  mouth  bespoke  frankness.  I  could  not 
describe  how  much  the  child  pleased  me  at  first 
sight  !  She  was  not  beautiful ;  but  the  three 
dimples  of  her  cheeks  and  chin  seemed  to  laugh, 
and  her  whole  person,  which  revealed  the  awkward- 
ness of  innocence,  had  something  in  it  indescribably 
good  and  sincere. 

My  gaze  alternated  from  the  statuette  to  the 
young  girl ;  and  I  saw  her  blush — so  frankly  and 
fully  ! — the  crimson  passing  over  her  face  as  by 
waves. 

"  Well,"  said  my  hostess,  who  had  become  suffi- 
ciently accustomed  to  my  distracted  moods  to  put 
the  same  question  to  me  twice,  "  is  that  the  very 
same  lady  who  came  in  to  see  you  through  the 
window  that  you  left  open  ?  She  was  very  saucy  \ 
but  then  you  were  quite  imprudent !  Anyhow, 
do  you  recognise  her  ?  " 

"  It  is  her  very  self,"  I  replied  ;  "  I  see  her  now 
on  that  pier-table  precisely  as  I  saw  her  on  the  table 
in  the  library." 

"  Then,  if  that  be  so,"  replied  Madame  de  Gabry, 
"  you  have  to  blame  for  it,  in  the  first  place,  your- 
self, as  a  man  who,  although  devoid  of  all  imagina- 
tion, to  use  your  own  words,  knew  how  to  depict 
your  dream  in  such  vivid  colours  ;  in  the  second 
place,  me,  who  was  able  to  remember  and  repeat 
faithfully  all  your  dream  ;  and,  lastly,  Mademoiselle 


122  THE  CRIME  OF 

Jeanne,  whom  I  now  introduce  to  you,  for  she  her- 
self modelled  that  wax  figure  precisely  according 
to  my  instructions." 

Madame  de  Gabry  had  taken  the  young  girl's 
hand  as  she  spoke  ;  but  the  latter  had  suddenly 
broken  away  from  her,  and  was  already  running 
through  the  park  with  the  speed  of  a  bird. 

"  Little  crazy  creature  !  "  Madame  de  Gabry  cried 
after  her.  "  How  can  one  be  so  shy  ?  Come  back 
here  to  be  scolded  and  kissed  !  " 

But  it  was  all  of  no  avail ;  the  frightened  child 
disappeared  among  the  shrubbery.  Madame  de 
Gabry  seated  herself  in  the  only  chair  remaining  in 
the  dilapidated  parlour. 

"  I  should  be  much  surprised,"  she  said,  "  if  my 
husband  had  not  already  spoken  to  you  of  Jeanne. 
She  is  a  sweet  child,  and  we  both  love  her  very  much. 
Tell  me  the  plain  truth  ;  what  do  you  think  of  her 
statuette  ?  " 

I  replied  that  the  work  was  full  of  good  taste  and 
spirit,  but  that  it  showed  some  want  of  study  and 
practice  on  the  author's  part ;  otherwise  I  had  been 
extremely  touched  to  think  that  those  young  fingers 
should  have  thus  embroidered  an  old  man's  rough 
sketch  of  fancy,  and  given  form  so  brilliantly  to  the 
dreams  of  a  dotard  like  myself. 

"  The  reason  I  ask  your  opinion,"  replied  Madame 
de  Gabry,  seriously,  "  is  that  Jeanne  is  a  poor  orphan, 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  123 

Do    you    think    she    could    earn    her    living   by 
modelling  statuettes  like  this  one  ? " 

"  As  for  that,  no  !  "  I  replied  ;  "  and  I  thini 
there  is  no  reason  to  regret  the  fact.  You  say  the 
girl  is  affectionate  and  sensitive  ;  I  can  well  believe 
you  ;  I  could  believe  it  from  her  face  alone.  There 
are  excitements  in  artist-life  which  impel  generous 
hearts  to  act  out  of  all  rule  and  measure.  This 
young  creature  is  made  to  love ;  keep  her  for  the 
domestic  hearth.  There  only  is  real  happiness." 

"  But  she  has  no  dowry !  "  replied  Madame  de 
Gabry. 

Then,  extending  her  hand  to  me,  she  continued  : 

"  You  are  our  friend  ;  I  can  tell  you  everything. 
The  father  of  this  child  was  a  banker,  and  one  of  our 
friends.  He  went  into  a  colossal  speculation,  and  it 
ruined  him.  He  survived  only  a  few  months  after  his 
failure,  in  which,  as  Paul  must  have  told  you,  three- 
fourths  of  my  uncle's  fortune  were  lost,  and  more 
than  half  of  our  own. 

"We  had  made  his  acquaintance  at  Monaco, 
during  the  winter  we  passed  there  at  my  uncle's 
house.  He  had  an  adventurous  disposition,  but 
such  an  engaging  manner  !  He  deceived  himself 
before  ever  he  deceived  others.  After  all,  it  is  in  the 
ability  to  deceive  oneself  that  the  greatest  talent 
is  shown,  is  it  not  ?  Well,  we  were  captured — my 
husband,  my  uncle,  and  I ;  and  we  risked  much 


124  THE  CRIME  OF 

more  than  a  reasonable  amount  in  a  very  hazardous 
undertaking.  But,  bah  !  as  Paul  says,  since  we 
have  no  children  we  need  not  worry  about  it. 
Besides,  we  have  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  the 
friend  in  whom  we  trusted  was  an  honest  man.  .  .  . 
You  must  know  his  name,  it  was  so  often  in  the 
papers  and  on  public  placards — Noel  Alexandre. 
His  wife  was  a  very  sweet  person.  I  knew  her  only 
when  she  was  already  past  her  prime,  with  traces  of 
having  once  been  very  pretty,  and  a  taste  for 
fashionable  style  and  display  which  seemed  quite 
becoming  to  her.  She  was  naturally  fond  of  social 
excitement ;  but  she  showed  a  great  deal  of  courage 
and  dignity  after  the  death  of  her  husband.  She 
died  a  year  after  him,  leaving  Jeanne  alone  in  the 
world." 

"  Clementine  !  "  I  cried  out. 

And  on  thus  learning  what  I  had  never  even 
imagined — the  mere  idea  of  which  would  have  set 
all  the  forces  of  my  soul  in  revolt — upon  hearing 
that  Clementine  was  no  longer  in  this  world,  some- 
thing like  a  great  silence  came  upon  me  ;  and  the 
feeling  which  flooded  my  whole  being  was  not  a 
keen,  strong  pain,  but  a  quiet  and  solemn  sorrow. 
Yet  I  was  conscious  of  some  incomprehensible  sense 
of  alleviation,  and  my  thought  rose  suddenly  to 
heights  before  unknown. 

"  From  wheresoever  thou  art  at   this  moment, 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  125 

Clementine,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  look  down  upon  this 
heart  now  indeed  cooled  by  age,  yet  whose  blood 
once  boiled  for  thy  sake,  and  say  whether  it  is  not 
reanimated  by  the  mere  thought  of  being  able  to 
love  all  that  remains  of  thee  on  earth.  Everything 
passes  away  since  thou  thyself  hast  passed  away  ; 
but  Life  is  immortal ;  it  is  that  Life  we  must  love 
in  its  forms  eternally  renewed.  All  the  rest  is 
child's  play  ;  and  I  myself,  with  all  my  books,  am 
only  like  a  child  playing  with  marbles.  The  purpose 
of  life — it  is  thou,  Clementine,  who  hast  revealed  it 
to  me  !  ".  .  . 

Madame  de  Gabry  aroused  me  from  my  thoughts 
by  murmuring, 

"  The  child  is  poor." 

"  The  daughter  of  Clementine  is  poor ! "  I 
exclaimed  aloud  ;  "  how  fortunate  that  it  is  so  ! 
I  would  not  wish  that  any  one  but  myself  should 
provide  for  her  and  dower  her  !  No  !  the  daughter 
of  Clementine  must  not  have  her  dowry  from  any 
one  but  me." 

And,  approaching  Madame  de  Gabry  as  she  rose 
from  her  chair,  I  took  her  right  hand  ;  I  kissed  that 
hand,  and  placed  it  on  my  arm,  and  said  : 

"  You  will  conduct  me  to  the  grave  of  the  widow 
of  Noel  Alexandre." 

And  I  heard  Madame  de  Gabry  asking  me : 

"  Why  are  you  crying  ?  " 


IV 

THE  LITTLE  SAINT-GEORGB 

April  1 6. 

SAINT  DROCTOVEUS  and  the  early  abbots  of  Saint- 
Germain-des-Pres  have  been  occupying  me  for  the 
past  forty  years  ;  but  I  do  not  know  if  I  shall  be  able 
to  write  their  history  before  I  go  to  join  them.  It  is 
already  quite  a  long  time  since  I  became  an  old  man. 
One  day  last  year,  on  the  Pont  des  Arts,  one  of  my 
fellow  members  at  the  Institute  was  lamenting 
before  me  over  the  ennui  of  becoming  old. 

"  Still,"  Saint-Beuve  replied  to  him,  "  it  is  the 
only  way  that  has  yet  been  found  of  living  a  long 
time." 

I  have  tried  this  way,  and  I  know  just  what  it  is 
worth.  The  trouble  of  it  is  not  that  one  lasts  too 
long,  but  that  one  sees  all  about  him  pass  away — 
mother,  wife,  friends,  children.  Nature  makes  and 
unmakes  all  these  divine  treasures  with  gloomy 
indifference,  and  at  last  we  find  that  we  have  not 
loved,  we  have  only  been  embracing  shadows- 
But  how  sweet  some  shadows  are  !  If  ever  creature 

136 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  127 

glided  like  a  shadow  through  the  life  of  a  man,  it  was 
certainly  that  young  girl  whom  I  fell  in  love  with 
when — incredible  though  it  now  seems — I  was 
myself  a  youth. 

A  Christian  sarcophagus  from  the  catacombs  of 
Rome  bears  a  formula  of  imprecation,  the  whole 
terrible  meaning  of  which  I  only  learned  with  time. 
It  says  :  "  Whatsoever  impious  man  violates  this 
sepulchre,  may  he  die  the  last  of  his  own  people  !  "  In 
my  capacity  of  archaeologist,  I  have  opened  tombs 
and  disturbed  ashes  in  order  to  collect  the  shreds  of 
apparel,  metal  ornaments,  or  gems  that  were  mingled 
with  those  ashes.  But  I  did  it  only  through  that 
scientific  curiosity  which  does  not  exclude  the 
feelings  of  reverence  and  of  piety.  May  that 
malediction  graven  by  some  one  of  the  first  followers 
of  the  apostles  upon  a  martyr's  tomb  never  fall 
upon  me  !  I  ought  not  to  fear  to  survive  my  own 
people  so  long  as  there  are  men  in  the  world ;  for 
there  are  always  some  whom  one  can  lore. 

But  the  power  of  love  itself  weakens  and  gradually 
becomes  lost  with  age,  like  all  the  other  energies  of 
man.  Example  proves  it ;  and  it  is  this  which 
terrifies  me.  Am  I  sure  that  I  have  not  myself 
already  suffered  this  great  loss  ?  I  should  surely 
have  felt  it,  but  for  the  happy  meeting  which  has 
rejuvenated  me.  Poets  speak  of  the  Fountain  of 
Youth  ;  it  does  exist ;  it  gushes  up  from  the  earth 


128  THE  CRIME  OF 

at  every  step  we  take.  And  one  passes  by  without 
drinking  of  it ! 

The  young  girl  I  loved,  married  of  her  own  choice 
to  a  rival,  passed,  all  grey-haired,  into  the  eternal 
rest.  I  have  found  her  daughter — so  that  my  life, 
which  before  seemed  to  me  without  utility,  now 
once  more  finds  a  purpose  and  a  reason  for  being. 

To-day  I  "  take  the  sun,"  as  they  say  in  Provence  ; 
I  take  it  on  the  terrace  of  the  Luxembourg,  at  the 
foot  of  the  statue  of  Marguerite  de  Navarre.  It  is 
a  spring  sun,  intoxicating  as  young  wine.  I  sit  and 
dream.  My  thoughts  escape  from  my  head  like  the 
foam  from  a  bottle  of  beer.  They  are  light,  and 
their  fizzing  amuses  me.  I  dream  ;  such  a  pastime 
is  certainly  permissible  to  an  old  fellow  who  has 
published  thirty  volumes  of  texts,  and  contributed 
to  the  Journal  des  Savants  for  twenty-six  years.  I 
have  the  satisfaction  of  feeling  that  I  performed 
my  task  as  well  as  it  was  possible  for  me  to  do,  and 
that  I  utilised  to  their  fullest  extent  those  mediocre 
faculties  with  which  Nature  endowed  me.  My 
efforts  were  not  all  in  vain,  and  I  have  contributed, 
in  my  own  modest  way,  to  that  renaissance  of 
historical  labours  which  will  remain  the  honour  of 
this  restless  century.  I  shall  certainly  be  counted 
among  those  ten  or  twelve  who  revealed  to  France 
her  own  literary  antiquities.  My  publication  of  the 
poetical  works  of  Gautier  de  Coincy  inaugurated  a 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  129 

judicious  system  and  fixed  a  date.  It  is  in  the 
austere  calm  of  old  age  that  I  decree  to  myself  this 
deserved  credit,  and  God,  who  sees  my  heart,  knows 
whether  pride  or  vanity  have  aught  to  do  with  this 
self-award  of  justice. 

But  I  am  tired  ;  my  eyes  are  dim  ;  my  hand 
trembles,  and  I  see  an  image  of  myself  in  those  old 
men  of  Homer,  whose  weakness  excluded  them 
from  the  battle,  and  who,  seated  upon  the  ramparts, 
lifted  up  their  voices  like  crickets  among  the  leaves. 

So  my  thoughts  were  wandering  when  three 
young  men  seated  themselves  near  me.  I  do  not 
know  whether  each  one  of  them  had  come  in  three 
boats,  like  the  monkey  of  Lafontaine,  but  the  three 
certainly  displayed  themselves  over  the  space  of 
twelve  chairs.  I  took  pleasure  in  watching  them, 
not  because  they  had  anything  very  extraordinary 
about  them,  but  because  I  discerned  in  them  that 
brave  joyous  manner  which  is  natural  to  youth. 
They  were  from  the  schools.  I  was  less  assured  of 
it  by  the  books  they  were  carrying  than  by  the 
character  of  their  physiognomy.  For  all  who  busy 
themselves  with  the  things  of  the  mind  can  be  at 
once  recognised  by  an  indescribable  something 
which  is  common  to  all  of  them.  I  am  very  fond 
of  young  people  ;  and  these  pleased  me,  in  spite  of 
a  certain  provoking  wild  manner  which  recalled  to 
me  my  own  college  days  with  marvellous  vividness. 


130  THE  CRIME  OF 

But  they  did  not  wear  velvet  doublets  and  long 
hair,  as  we  used  to  do  ;  they  did  not  walk  about,  as 
we  used  to  do,  with  a  death's-head  ;  they  did  not 
cry  out,  at  we  used  to  do,  "  Hell  and  malediction  !  " 
They  were  quite  properly  dressed,  and  neither  their 
constume  nor  their  language  had  anything  suggestive 
of  the  Middle  Ages.  I  must  also  add  that  they  paid 
considerable  attention  to  the  women  passing  on  the 
terrace,  and  expressed  their  admiration  of  some  of 
them  in  very  animated  language.  But  their  reflec- 
tions, even  on  this  subject,  were  not  of  a  character 
to  oblige  me  to  flee  from  my  seat.  Besides,  so  long 
as  youth  is  studious,  1  think  it  has  a  right  to  its 
gaieties. 

One  of  them,  having  made  some  gallant  pleasantry 
which  I  forget,  the  smallest  and  darkest  of  the  three 
exclaimed,  with  a  slight  Gascon  accent, 

"  What  a  thing  to  say  !  Only  physiologists  like 
us  have  any  right  to  occupy  ourselves  about  living 
matter.  As  for  you,  Gelis,  who  only  live  in  the 
past — like  all  your  fellow  archivists  and  paleographers 
— you  will  do  better  to  confine  yourself  to  those 
stone  women  over  there,  who  are  your  contem- 
poraries." 

And  he  pointed  to  the  statues  of  the  Ladies  of 
Ancient  France  which  towered  up,  all  white,  in  a 
half-circle  under  the  trees  of  the  terrace.  This 
joke,  though  in  itself  trifling,  enabled  me  to  know 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  131 

that  the  young  man  called  Gelis  was  a  student  at  the 
Ecole  des  Chartes.  From  the  conversation  which 
followed  I  was  able  to  learn  that  his  neighbour, 
blond  and  wan  almost  to  diaphaneity,  taciturn  and 
sarcastic,  was  Boulmier,  a  fellow  student.  Gelis 
and  the  future  doctor  (I  hope  he  will  become  one 
some  day)  discoursed  together  with  much  fantasy 
and  spirit.  In  the  midst  of  the  loftiest  speculations 
they  would  play  upon  words,  and  make  jokes  after 
the  peculiar  fashion  of  really  witty  persons — that  is 
to  say,  in  a  style  of  enormous  absurdity.  I  need 
hardly  say,  I  suppose,  that  they  only  deigned  to 
maintain  the  most  monstrous  kind  of  paradoxes. 
They  employed  all  their  powers  of  imagination  to 
make  themselves  as  ludicrous  as  possible,  and  all 
their  powers  of  reasoning  to  assert  the  contrary  of 
common  sense.  All  the  better  for  them  !  I  do 
not  like  to  see  young  folks  too  rational. 

The  student  of  medicine,  after  glancing  at  the 
title  of  the  book  that  Boulmier  held  in  his  hand, 
exclaimed, 

"  What ! — you  read  Michelet — you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Boulmier,  very  gravely.  "  I 
like  novels." 

Gelis,  who  dominated  both  by  his  fine  stature, 
imperious  gestures,  and  ready  wit,  took  the  book, 
vurned  over  a  few  pages  rapidly,  and  said, 

*  Michelet    always    had    a    great   propensity  to 


132  THE  CRIME  OF 

emotional  tenderness.  He  wept  sweet  tears  over 
Maillard,  that  nice  little  man  who  introduced  la 
pa-perasserie  into  the  September  massacres.  But  as 
emotional  tenderness  leads  to  fury,  he  becomes  all 
at  once  furious  against  the  victims.  There  was  no 
help  for  it.  It  is  the  sentimentality  of  the  age. 
The  assassin  is  pitied,  but  the  victim  is  considered 
quite  unpardonable.  In  his  later  manner  Michelet 
is  more  Michelet  than  ever  before.  There  is  no 
common  sense  in  it ;  it  is  simply  wonderful ! 
Neither  art  nor  science,  neither  criticism  nor 
narrative ;  only  furies  and  fainting-spells  and 
epileptic  fits  over  matters  which  he  never  deigns  to 
explain.  Childish  outcries — envies  de  jemme  grosse  ! 
— and  a  style,  my  friends  ! — not  a  single  finished 
phrase  !  It  is  astounding  !  " 

And  he  handed  the  book  back  to  his  comrade. 
"  This  is  amusing  madness,"  I  thought  to  myself, 
"  and  not  quite  so  devoid  of  common  sense  as  it 
appears.  This  young  man,  though  only  playing, 
has  sharply  touched  the  defect  in  the  cuirass." 

But  the  Provencal  student  declared  that  history 
was  a  thoroughly  despicable  exercise  of  rhetoric. 
According  to  him,  the  only  true  history  was  the 
natural  history  of  man.  Michelet  was  in  the  right 
path  when  he  came  in  contact  with  the  fistula  of 
Louis  XIV.,  but  he  fell  back  into  the  old  rut  almost 
immediately  afterwards. 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  133 

After  this  judicious  expression  of  opinion,  the 
young  physiologist  went  to  join  a  party  of  passing 
friends.  The  two  archivists,  less  well  acquainted 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  a  garden  so  far  from  the 
Rue  Paradis-au-Marais,  remained  together,  and 
began  to  chat  about  their  studies.  Gelis,  who  had 
completed  his  third  class-year,  was  preparing  a 
thesis  on  the  subject  of  which  he  expatiated  with 
youthful  enthusiasm.  Indeed,  I  thought  the  sub- 
ject a  very  good  one,  particularly  because  I  had 
recently  thought  myself  called  upon  to  treat  a 
notable  part  of  it.  It  was  the  Monasticon  Galli- 
canum.  The  young  erudite  (I  give  him  the  name 
as  a  presage)  wanted  to  describe  all  the  engravings 
made  about  1690  for  the  work  which  Dom  Michel 
Germain  would  have  had  printed  but  for  the  one 
irremediable  hindrance  which  is  rarely  foreseen 
and  never  avoided.  Dom  Michel  Germain  left  his 
manuscript  complete,  however,  and  in  good  order 
when  he  died.  Shall  I  be  able  to  do  as  much  with 
mine  ? — but  that  is  not  the  present  question.  So 
far  as  I  am  able  to  understand,  Monsieur  Gelis 
intends  to  devote  a  brief  archaeological  notice  to 
each  of  the  abbeys  pictured  by  the  humble  engravers 
of  Dom  Michel  Germain. 

His  friend  asked  him  whether  he  was  acquainted 
with  all  the  manuscripts  and  printed  documents 
relating  to  the  subject.  It  was  then  that  I  pricked 


134  THE  CRIME  OF 

up  my  ears.  They  spoke  at  first  of  original  sources ; 
and  I  must  confess  they  did  so  in  a  satisfactory 
manner,  despite  their  innumerable  and  detestable 
puns.  Then  they  began  to  speak  about  contem- 
porary studies  on  the  subject. 

"  Have  you  read,"  asked  Boulmier,  "  the  notice 
of  Courajod  ?  " 

"  Good  !  "  I  thought  to  myself. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Gelis ;  "  it  is  accurate." 

"  Have  you  read,"  said  Boulmier,  "  the  article  by 
Tamisey  de  Larroque  in  the  *  Revue  des  Questions 
Historiques '  ? " 

"  Good  !  "  I  thought  to  myself,  for  the  second 
time. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Gelis,  "  it  is  full  of  things.".  .   . 

"  Have  you  read,"  said  Boulmier,  "  the  *  Tableau 
des  Abbayes  Benedictines  en  1600,*  by  Sylvestre 
Bonnard  ?  " 

"  Good  !  "  I  said  to  myself,  for  the  third  time. 

"  Ma  foi  !  no  !  "  replied  Gelis.  "  Bonnard  is  an 
idiot !  "  Turning  my  head,  I  perceived  that  the 
shadow  had  reached  the  place  where  I  was  sitting. 
It  was  growing  chilly,  and  I  thought  to  myself 
what  a  fool  I  was  to  have  remained  sitting  there, 
at  the  risk  of  getting  the  rheumatism,  just  to  listen 
to  the  impertinence  of  those  two  young  fellows ! 

"  Well !  well !  "  I  said  to  myself  as  I  got  up. 
w  Let  this  prattling  fledgling  write  his  thesis,  and 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  135 

sustain  it !  He  will  find  my  colleague,  Quicherat, 
or  some  other  professor  at  the  school,  to  show  him 
what  an  ignoramus  he  is.  I  consider  him  neither 
more  nor  less  than  a  rascal ;  and  really,  now  that  I 
come  to  think  of  it,  what  he  said  about  Michelet 
awhile  ago  was  quite  insufferable,  outrageous  !  To 
talk  in  that  way  about  an  old  master  replete  with 
genius !  It  was  simply  abominable  ! ' 

Afril  17. 

"  TH^R^SE,  give  me  my  new  hat,  my  best  frock- 
coat,  and  my  silver-headed  cane." 

But  Therese  is  deaf  as  a  sack  of  charcoal  and  slow 
as  Justice.  Years  have  made  her  so.  The  worst  is 
that  she  thinks  she  can  hear  well  and  move  about 
well ;  and,  proud  of  her  sixty  years  of  upright 
domesticity,  she  serves  her  old  master  with  the 
most  vigilant  despotism. 

"  What  did  I  tell  you  ?  "  .  .  .  And  now  she  will  not 
give  me  my  silver-headed  cane,  for  fear  that  I  might 
lose  it !  It  is  true  that  I  often  forget  umbrellas 
and  walking-sticks  in  the  omnibuses  and  booksellers' 
shops.  But  I  have  a  special  reason  for  wanting  to 
take  out  with  me  to-day  my  old  cane  with  the  en- 
graved silver  head  representing  Don  Quixote  charging 
a  windmill,  lance  in  rest,  while  Sancho  Panza,  with 
uplifted  arms,  vainly  conjures  him  to  stop.  That 
cane  is  all  that  came  to  me  from  the  heritage  of  my 


136  THE  CRIME  OF 

uncle,  Captain  Victor,  who  in  his  lifetime  resembled 
Don  Quixote  much  more  than  Sancho  Panza,  and 
who  loved  blows  quite  as  much  as  most  people  fear 
them. 

For  thirty  years  I  have  been  in  the  habit  of  carry- 
ing this  cane  upon  all  memorable  or  solemn  visits 
which  I  make  ;  and  those  two  figures  of  knight  and 
squire  give  me  inspiration  and  counsel.  I  imagine  I 
can  hear  them  speak.  Don  Quixote  says, 

"  Think  well  about  great  things  ;  and  know  that 
thought  is  the  only  reality  in  this  world.  Lift  up 
Nature  to  thine  own  stature ;  and  let  the  whole 
universe  be  for  thee  no  more  than  the  reflection  of 
thine  own  heroic  soul.  Combat  for  honour's  sake  : 
that  alone  is  worthy  of  a  man  !  and  if  it  should 
fall  to  thee  to  receive  wounds,  shed  thy  blood  as  a 
beneficent  dew,  and  smile." 

And  Sancho  Panza  says  to  me  in  his  turn, 

"  Remain  just  what  heaven  made  thee,  comrade  ! 
Prefer  the  bread-crust  which  has  become  dry  in  thy 
wallet  to  all  the  partridges  that  roast  in  the  kitchens 
of  lords.  Obey  thy  master,  whether  he  be  a  wise 
man  or  a  fool,  and  do  not  cumber  thy  brain  with 
too  many  useless  things.  Fear  blows  ;  'tis  verily 
tempting  God  to  seek  after  danger  !  " 

But  if  the  incomparable  knight  and  his  matchless 
squire  are  imaged  only  upon  this  cane  of  mine,  they 
are  realities  to  my  inner  conscience.  Within  every 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  137 

one  of  us  there  lives  both  a  Don  Quixote  and  a 
Sancho  Panza  to  whom  we  hearken  by  turns ;  and 
though  Sancho  most  persuades  us,  it  is  Don  Quixote 
that  we  find  ourselves  obliged  to  admire.  .  .  .  But 
a  truce  to  this  dotage  ! — and  let  us  go  to  see  Madame 
d.e  Gabry  about  some  matters  more  important  than 
the  everyday  details  of  life.  .  .  . 

Same  day. 

I  FOUND  Madame  de  Gabry  dressed  in  black,  just 
buttoning  her  gloves. 

"  I  am  ready,"  she  said. 

Ready  ! — so  I  have  always  found  her  upon  any 
occasion  of  doing  a  kindness. 

After  some  compliments  about  the  good  health  of 
her  husband,  who  was  taking  a  walk  at  the  time,  we 
descended  the  stairs  and  got  into  the  carriage. 

I  do  not  know  what  secret  influence  I  feared  to 
dissipate  by  breaking  silence,  but  we  followed  the 
great  deserted  drives  without  speaking,  looking  at 
the  crosses,  the  monumental  columns,  and  the 
mortuary  wreaths  awaiting  sad  purchasers. 

The  vehicle  at  last  halted  at  the  extreme  verge  of 
the  land  of  the  living,  before  the  gate  upon  which 
words  of  hope  are  graven. 

"  Follow  me,"  said  Madame  de  Gabry,  whose  taH 
stature  I  noticed  then  for  the  first  time.  She  first 
walked  down  an  alley  of  cypresses,  and  then  took  a 


138  THE  CRIME  OF 

very  narrow  path   contrived   between  the  tombs. 
Finally,  halting  before  a  plain  slab,  she  said  to  me, 

"  It  is  here." 

And  she  knelt  down.  I  could  not  help  noticing 
the  beautiful  easy  manner  in  which  this  Christian 
woman  fell  upon  her  knees,  leaving  the  folds  of  her 
robe  to  spread  themselves  at  random  about  her.  I 
had  never  before  seen  any  lady  kneel  down  with  such 
frankness  and  such  forgetfulness  of  self,  except  two 
fair  Polish  exiles,  one  evening  long  ago,  in  a  deserted 
church  in  Paris. 

This  image  passed  like  a  flash  ;  and  I  saw  only  the 
sloping  stone  on  which  was  graven  the  name  of  Cle- 
mentine. What  I  then  felt  was  something  so  deep 
and  vague  that  only  the  sound  of  some  rich  music 
could  convey  any  idea  of  it.  I  seemed  to  hear 
instruments  of  celestial  sweetness  make  harmony  in 
my  old  heart.  With  the  solemn  accords  of  a  funeral 
chant  there  seemed  to  mingle  the  subdued  melody 
of  a  song  of  love  ;  for  my  soul  blended  into  one 
feeling  the  grave  sadness  of  the  present  with  the 
familiar  graces  of  the  past. 

I  cannot  tell  whether  we  had  remained  a  long  time 
at  the  tomb  of  Clementine  before  Madame  de  Gabry 
arose.  We  passed  through  the  cemetery  again  with- 
out speaking  to  each  other.  Only  when  we  found 
•  u  -selves  among  the  living  once  more  did  I  feel  able 
to  speak. 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  139 

"  While  following  you  there,"  I  said  to  Madame  de 
Gabry,  "  I  could  not  help  thinking  of  those  angels 
with  whom  we  are  said  to  meet  on  the  mysterious 
confines  of  life  and  death.  That  tomb  you  led  me 
to,  of  which  I  knew  nothing — as  I  know  nothing,  or 
scarcely  anything,  concerning  her  whom  it  covers — 
brought  back  to  me  emotions  which  were  unique  in 
my  life,  and  which  seem  in  the  dulness  of  that  life 
like  some  light  gleaming  upon  a  dark  road.  The  light 
recedes  farther  and  farther  away  as  the  journey 
lengthens ;  I  have  now  almost  reached  the  bottom  of 
the  last  slope  ;  and,  nevertheless,  each  time  I  turn  to 
look  back  I  see  the  glow  as  bright  as  ever. 

"  You,  Madame,  who  knew  Clementine  as  a  wife 
and  mother  after  her  hair  had  become  grey,  you 
cannot  imagine  her  as  I  see  her  still ;  a  young  fair 
girl,  all  pink  and  white.  Since  you  have  been  so 
kind  as  to  be  my  guide,  dear  Madame,  I  ought  to 
tell  you  what  feelings  were  awakened  in  me  by  the 
sight  of  that  grave  to  which  you  led  me.  Memories 
throng  back  upon  me.  I  feel  myself  like  some  old 
gnarled  and  mossy  oak  which  awakens  a  nestling 
world  of  birds  by  the  shaking  of  its  branches.  Un- 
fortunately the  song  my  birds  sing  is  old  as  the 
world,  and  can  amuse  no  one  but  myself." 

"  Tell  me  your  souvenirs,"  said  Madame  de 
Gabry.  "  I  cannot  read  your  books,  because  they 
are  written  only  for  scholars  ^  but  I  like  very  much. 


140  THE  CRIME  OF 

to  have  you  talk  to  me,  because  you  know  how  to 
give  interest  to  the  most  ordinary  things  in  life. 
And  talk  to  me  just  as  you  would  talk  to  an  old 
woman.  This  morning  I  found  three  grey  threads 
in  my  hair." 

"  Let  them  come  without  regret,  Madame,"  I 
replied.  "  Time  deals  gently  only  with  those  who 
take  it  gently.  And  when  in  some  years  more  you 
will  have  a  silvery  fringe  under  your  black  fillet, 
you  will  be  reclothed  with  a  new  beauty,  less  vivid 
but  more  touching  than  the  first ;  and  you  will  find 
your  husband  admiring  your  grey  tresses  as  much  as 
he  did  that  black  curl  which  you  gave  him  when  about 
to  be  married,  and  which  he  preserves  in  a  locket 
as  a  thing  sacred.  .  .  These  boulevards  are  broad 
and  very  quiet.  We  can  talk  at  our  ease  as  we  walk 
along.  1  will  tell  you,  to  begin  with,  how  I  first  made 
the  acquaintance  of  Clementine's  father.  But  you 
must  not  expect  anything  extraordinary,  or  anything 
even  remarkable  ;  you  would  be  greatly  deceived. 

"  Monsieur  de  Lessay  used  to  live  in  the  second 
storey  of  an  old  house  in  the  Avenue  de  1'Observa- 
toire,  having  a  stuccoed  front,  ornamented  with 
antique  busts,  and  a  large  unkept  garden  attached  to 
it.  That  facade  and  that  garden  were  the  first 
images  my  child-eyes  perceived  ;  and  they  will  be 
the  last,  no  doubt,  which  I  shall  still  see  through  my 
closed  eyelids  when  the  Inevitable  Day  come*. 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  141 

For  it  was  in  that  house  that  I  was  born  ;  it  was  in 
that  garden  I  first  learned,  while  playing,  to  feel 
and  know  some  particles  of  this  old  universe. 
Magical  hours  ! — sacred  hours  ! — when  the  soul,  all 
fresh  from  the  making,  first  discovers  the  world, 
which  for  its  sake  seems  to  assume  such  caressing 
brightness,  such  mysterious  charm  !  And  that, 
Madame,  is  indeed  because  the  universe  itself  is 
only  the  reflection  of  our  soul. 

"  My  mother  was  a  being  very  happily  consti- 
tuted. She  rose  with  the  sun,  like  the  birds  ;  and 
she  herself  resembled  the  birds  by  her  domestic 
industry,  by  her  maternal  instinct,  by  her  perpetual 
desire  to  sing,  and  by  a  sort  of  brusque  grace,  which 
I  could  feel  the  charm  of  very  well  even  as  a  child. 
She  was  the  soul  of  the  house,  which  she  filled  with 
her  systematic  and  joyous  activity.  My  father 
was  just  as  slow  as  she  was  brisk.  I  can  recall  very 
well  that  placid  face  of  his,  over  which  at  times  an 
ironical  smile  used  to  flit.  He  was  fatigued  with 
active  life ;  and  he  loved  his  fatigue.  Seated 
beside  the  fire  in  his  big  arm-chair,  he  used  to  read 
from  morning  till  night ;  and  it  is  from  him  that 
I  inherit  my  love  of  books.  I  have  in  my  library  a 
Mably  and  a  Raynal,  which  he  annotated  with  his 
own  hand  from  beginning  to  end.  But  it  was 
utterly  useless  attempting  to  interest  him  in  any- 
thing practical  whatever.  When  my  mother  would 


I42  THE  CRIME  OF 

try,  by  all  kinds  of  gracious  little  ruses,  to  lure  him 
out  of  his  retirement,  he  would  simply  shake  his 
head  with  that  inexorable  gentleness  which  is  the 
force  of  weak  characters.  He  used  in  this  way 
greatly  to  worry  the  poor  woman,  who  could  not 
enter  at  all  into  his  own  sphere  of  meditative  wisdom, 
and  could  understand  nothing  of  life  except  its 
daily  duties  and  the  merry  labour  of  each  hour. 
She  thought  him  sick,  and  feared  he  was  going  to 
become  still  more  so.  But  his  apathy  had  a  different 
cause. 

"  My  father,  entering  the  Naval  Office  under 
Monsieur  Decres,  in  1801,  gave  early  proof  of  high 
administrative  talent.  There  was  a  great  deal  of 
activity  in  the  marine  department  in  those  times ; 
and  in  1805  my  father  was  appointed  chief  of  the 
Second  Administrative  Division.  That  same  year, 
the  Emperor,  whose  attention  had  been  called  to 
him  by  the  Minister,  ordered  him  to  make  a  report 
upon  the  organisation  of  the  English  navy.  This 
work,  which  reflected  a  profoundly  liberal  and 
philosophic  spirit,  of  which  the  editor  himself  was 
unconscious,  was  only  finished  in  1807 — about 
eighteen  months  after  the  defeat  of  Admiral  Ville- 
neuve  at  Trafalgar.  Napoleon,  who,  from  that 
disastrous  day,  never  wanted  to  hear  the  word  ship 
mentioned  in  his  presence,  angrily  glanced  over  a 
few  pages  of  the  memoir,  and  then  threw  it  into  the 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  143 

fire,  vociferating,  *  Words  ! — words  !  I  said  once 
before  that  I  hated  ideologists.'  My  father  was 
told  afterwards  that  the  Emperor's  anger  was  so 
intense  at  the  moment  that  he  stamped  the  manu- 
script down  into  the  fire  with  his  boot-heels.  At 
all  events,  it  was  his  habit,  when  very  much  irri- 
tated, to  poke  down  the  fire  with  his  feet  until  he 
had  scorched  his  boot-soles.  My  father  never 
fully  recovered  from  this  disgrace  ;  and  the  fruit- 
lessness  of  all  his  efforts  towards  reform  was  certainly 
the  cause  of  the  apathy  which  came  upon  him  at  a 
later  day.  Nevertheless,  Napoleon,  after  his  return 
from  Elba,  sent  for  him,  and  ordered  him  to  prepare 
some  liberal  and  patriotic  bulletins  and  proclama- 
tions for  the  fleet.  After  Waterloo,  my  father, 
whom  the  event  had  rather  saddened  than  surprised, 
retired  into  private  life,  and  was  not  interfered 
with — except  that  it  was  generally  averred  of  him 
that  he  was  a  Jacobin,  a  buveur-de-sang — one  of 
those  men  with  whom  no  one  could  afford  to  be 
on  intimate  terms.  My  mother's  eldest  brother, 
Victor  Maldent,  an  infantry  captain — retired  on 
half-pay  in  1814,  and  disbanded  in  1815 — aggra- 
vated by  his  bad  attitude  the  situation  in  which 
the  fall  of  the  Empire  had  placed  my  father.  Cap- 
tain Victor  used  to  shout  in  the  cafes  and  the  public 
balls  that  the  Bourbons  had  sold  France  to  the 
Cossacks.  He  used  to  show  everybody  a  tricoloured 


144  THE  CRIME  OF 

cockade  hidden  in  the  lining  of  his  hat ;  and  carried 
with  much  ostentation  a  walking-stick,  the  handle 
of  which  had  been  so  carved  that  the  shadow  thrown 
by  it  made  the  silhouette  of  the  Emperor. 

"  Unless  you  have  seen  certain  lithographs  by 
Charlet,  Madame,  you  could  form  no  idea  of  the 
physiognomy  of  my  Uncle  Victor,  when  he  used  to 
stride  about  the  garden  of  the  Tuileries  with  a 
fiercely  elegant  manner  of  his  own — buttoned  up 
in  his  frogged  coat,  with  his  cross-of-honour  upon 
his  breast,  and  a  bouquet  of  violets  in  his  button- 
hole. 

"  Idleness  and  intemperance  greatly  intensified 
the  vulgar  recklessness  of  his  political  passions.  He 
used  to  insult  people  whom  he  happened  to  see 
reading  the  Quotidienne,  or  the  Drapeau  Blanc,  and 
compel  them  to  fight  with  him.  In  this  way  he 
had  the  pain  and  the  shame  of  wounding  a  boy  of 
sixteen  in  a  duel.  In  short,  my  Uncle  Victor  was 
the  very  reverse  of  a  well-behaved  person  ;  and 
as  he  came  to  lunch  and  dine  at  our  house  every 
blessed  day  in  the  year,  his  bad  reputation  became 
attached  to  our  family.  My  poor  father  suffered 
cruelly  from  some  of  his  guest's  pranks  ;  but  being 
very  good-natured,  he  never  made  any  remarks, 
and  continued  to  give  the  freedom  of  his  house  to 
the  captain,  who  only  despised  him  for  it. 

"  All  this  which  I  have  told  you,  Madame,  wu 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  145 

explained  to  me  afterwards.  But  at  the  time  in 
question,  my  uncle  the  captain  filled  me  with  the 
very  enthusiasm  of  admiration,  and  I  promised 
myself  to  try  to  become  some  day  as  like  him  as 
possible.  So  one  fine  morning,  in  order  to  begin 
the  likeness,  I  put  my  arms  akimbo,  and  swore  like 
a  trooper.  My  excellent  mother  at  once  gave  me 
such  a  box  on  the  ear  that  I  remained  half  stupefied 
for  some  little  while  before  I  could  even  burst  out 
crying.  I  can  still  see  the  old  arm-chair,  covered 
with  yellow  Utrecht  velvet,  behind  which  I  wept 
innumerable  tears  that  day. 

"  I  was  a  very  little  fellow  then.  One  morning 
my  father,  lifting  me  upon  his  knees,  as  he  was  in 
the  habit  of  doing,  smiled  at  me  with  that  slightly 
ironical  smile  which  gave  a  certain  piquancy  to  his 
perpetual  gentleness  of  manner.  As  I  sat  on  his 
knee,  playing  with  his  long  white  hair,  he  told  me 
something  which  I  did  not  understand  very  well, 
but  which  interested  me  very  much,  for  the  simple 
reason  that  it  was  mysterious  to  me.  I  think,  but 
am  not  quite  sure,  that  he  related  to  me  that 
morning  the  story  of  the  little  King  of  Yvetot, 
according  to  the  song.  All  of  a  sudden  we  heard  a 
great  report ;  and  the  windows  rattled.  My 
father  slipped  me  down  gently  on  the  floor  at  his 
feet ;  he  threw  up  his  trembling  arms,  with  a  strange 
gesture  ;  his  face  became  all  inert  and  white,  and 


146  THE  CRIME  OF 

his  eyes  seemed  enormous.  He  tried  to  speak,  but 
his  teeth  were  chattering.  At  last  he  murmured, 
*  They  have  shot  him  ! '  I  did  not  know  what 
he  meant,  and  felt  only  a  vague  terror.  I  knew 
afterwards,  however,  that  he  was  speaking  of 
Marshal  Ney,  who  fell  on  the  7th  of  December, 
1815,  under  the  wall  enclosing  some  waste  ground 
beside  our  house. 

"  About  that  time  I  used  often  to  meet  on  the 
stairway  an  old  man  (or,  perhaps,  not  exactly  an  old 
man)  with  little  black  eyes  which  flashed  with  extra- 
ordinary vivacity,  and  an  impassive,  swarthy  face. 
He  did  not  seem  to  me  alive — or  at  least  he  did  not 
seem  to  me  alive  in  the  same  way  that  other  men 
were  alive.  I  had  once  seen,  at  the  residence  of 
Monsieur  Denon,  where  my  father  had  taken  me 
with  him  on  a  visit,  a  mummy  brought  from  Egypt ; 
and  I  believed  in  good  faith  that  Monsieur  Denon's 
mummy  used  to  get  up  when  no  one  was  looking, 
leave  its  gilded  case,  put  on  a  brown  coat  and 
powdered  wig,  and  become  transformed  into  Mon- 
sieur de  Lessay.  And  even  to-day,  dear  Madame, 
while  I  reject  that  opinion  as  being  without  founda- 
tion, I  must  confess  that  Monsieur  de  Lessay  bore 
a  very  strong  resemblance  to  Monsieur  Denon's 
mummy.  The  fact  is  enough  to  explain  why  this 
person  inspired  me  with  fantastic  terror. 

"  In   reality,   Monsieur  de   Lessay  was  a  tmall 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  147 

gentleman  and  a  great  philosopher.  As  a  dis- 
ciple of  Mably  and  Rousseau,  he  flattered  him- 
self on  being  a  man  without  any  prejudices ; 
and  this  pretension  itself  is  a  very  great  pre- 
judice. 

"  He  professed  to  hate  fanaticism,  yet  was  himself 
a  fanatic  on  the  topic  of  toleration.  I  am  telling 
you,  Madame,  about  a  character  belonging  to  an 
age  that  is  past.  I  fear  I  may  not  be  able  to  make 
you  understand,  and  I  am  sure  I  shall  not  be  able 
to  interest  you.  It  was  so  long  ago  !  But  I  will 
abridge  as  much  as  possible  :  besides,  I  did  not 
promise  you  anything  interesting  ;  and  you  could 
not  have  expected  to  hear  of  remarkable  adventures 
in  the  life  of  Sylvestre  Bonnard." 

Madame  de  Gabry  encouraged  me  to  proceed, 
and  I  resumed  : 

"  Monsieur  de  Lessay  was  brusque  with  men  and 
courteous  to  ladies.  He  used  to  kiss  the  hand  of  my 
mother,  whom  the  customs  of  the  Republic  and 
the  Empire  had  not  habituated  to  such  gallantry. 
In  him,  I  touched  the  age  of  Louis  XVI.  Monsieur 
de  Lessay  was  a  geographer  ;  and  nobody,  I  believe, 
ever  showed  more  pride  than  he  in  occupying  him- 
self with  the  face  of  the  earth.  Under  the  Old 
Regime  he  had  attempted  philosophical  agriculture, 
and  thus  squandered  his  estates  to  the  very  last  acre. 
When  he  had  ceased  to  own  one  square  foot  of 


148  THE  CRIME  OF 

ground,  he  took  possession  of  the  whole  globe,  and 
prepared  an  extraordinary  number  of  maps,  based 
upon  the  narratives  of  travellers.  But  as  he  had 
been  mentally  nourished  with  the  very  marrow  of 
the  "  Encyclopedic,"  he  was  not  satisfied  with 
merely  parking  off  human  beings  within  so  many 
degrees,  minutes,  and  seconds  of  latitude  and 
longitude.  He  also  occupied  himself,  alas !  with  the 
question  of  their  happiness.  It  is  worthy  of  remark, 
Madame,  that  those  who  have  given  themselves 
the  most  concern  about  the  happiness  of  peoples 
have  made  their  neighbours  very  miserable.  Mon- 
lieur  de  Lessay,  who  was  more  of  a  geometrician 
than  D'Alembert,  and  more  of  a  philosopher  than 
Jean  Jacques,  was  also  more  of  a  royalist  than 
Louis  XVIII.  But  his  love  for  the  King  was  as 
nothing  to  his  hate  for  the  Emperor.  He  had 
joined  the  conspiracy  of  Georges  against  the  First 
Consul ;  but  in  the  framing  of  the  indictment  he 
was  not  included  among  the  inculpated  parties, 
having  been  either  ignored  or  despised,  and  this 
injury  he  never  could  forgive  Bonaparte,  whom 
he  called  the  Ogre  of  Corsica,  and  to  whom  he  used 
to  say  he  would  never  have  confided  even  the  com- 
mand of  a  regiment,  so  pitiful  a  soldier  he  judged 
him  to  be. 

"  In   1820,  Monsieur  de  Lessay,  who  had  then 
been  a  widower  for  many  years,  married  again,  at 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  149 

the  age  of  sixty,  a  very  young  woman,  whom  he 
pitilessly  kept  at  work  preparing  maps  for  him,  and 
who  gave  him  a  daughter  some  years  after  their 
marriage,  and  died  in  childbed.  My  mother  had 
nursed  her  during  her  brief  illness,  and  had  taken 
care  of  the  child.  The  name  of  that  child  was 
Clementine. 

"  It  was  from  the  time  of  that  birth  and  that 
death  that  the  relations  between  our  family  and 
Monsieur  de  Lessay  began.  In  the  meanwhile  I 
had  been  growing  dull  as  I  began  to  leave  my  true 
childhood  behind  me.  I  had  lost  the  charming 
power  of  being  able  to  see  and  feel ;  and  things  no 
longer  caused  me  those  delicious  surprises  which 
form  the  enchantment  of  the  more  tender  age. 
For  the  same  reason,  perhaps,  I  have  no  distinct 
remembrance  of  the  period  following  the  birth 
of  Clementine  ;  I  only  know  that  a  few  months 
.afterwards  I  had  a  misfortune,  the  mere  thought  of 
which  still  wrings  my  heart.  I  lost  my  mother.  A 
great  silence,  a  great  coldness,  and  a  great  darkness 
seemed  all  at  once  to  fill  the  house. 

"  I  fell  into  a  sort  of  torpor.  My  father  sent  me 
to  the  lycee,  but  I  could  only  arouse  myself  from 
my  lethargy  with  the  greatest  effort. 

"  Still,  I  was  not  altogether  a  dullard,  and  my 
professors  were  able  to  teach  me  almost  everything 
they  wanted,  namely,  a  little  Greek  and  a  great 

L 


ISO  THE  CRIME  OF 

deal  of  Latin.  My  acquaintances  were  confined 
to  the  ancients.  I  learned  to  esteem  Miltiades, 
and  to  admire  Themistocles.  I  became  familiar 
with  Quintus  Fabius,  as  far,  at  least,  as  it  was 
possible  to  become  familiar  with  so  great  a  Consul. 
Proud  of  these  lofty  acquaintances,  I  scarcely  ever 
condescended  to  notice  little  Clementine  and  her  old 
father,  who,  in  any  event,  went  away  to  Normandy 
one  fine  morning  without  my  having  deigned  to 
give  a  moment's  thought  to  their  possible  return. 

"  They  came  back,  however,  Madame,  they  came 
back  !  Influences  of  Heaven,  forces  of  nature,  all 
ye  mysterious  powers  which  vouchsafe  to  man  the 
ability  to  love,  you  know  how  I  again  beheld  Cle- 
mentine !  They  re-entered  our  melancholy  home. 
Monsieur  de  Lessay  no  longer  wore  a  wig.  Bald, 
with  a  few  grey  locks  about  his  ruddy  temples,  he 
had  all  the  aspect  of  robust  old  age.  But  that 
divine  being  whom  I  saw  all  resplendent,  as  she 
leaned  upon  his  arm — she  whose  presence  illu- 
minated the  old  faded  parlour — she  was  not  an 
apparition !  It  was  Clementine  herself !  I  am 
speaking  the  simple  truth  :  her  violet  eyes  seemed 
to  me  in  that  moment  supernatural,  and  even  to-day 
I  cannot  imagine  how  those  two  living  jewels  could 
have  endured  the  fatigues  of  life,  or  become  subjected 
to  the  corruption  of  death. 

"  She  betrayed  a  little  shyness  in  greeting  my 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  151 

father,  whom  she  did  not  remember.  Her  com- 
plexion was  slightly  pink,  and  her  half-open  lips 
smiled  with  that  smile  which  makes  one  think 
of  the  Infinite — perhaps  because  it  betrays  no 
particular  thought,  and  expresses  only  the  joy  of 
living  and  the  bliss  of  being  beautiful.  Under  a 
pink  hood  her  face  shone  like  a  gem  in  an  open 
casket ;  she  wore  a  cashmere  scarf  over  a  robe  of 
white  muslin  plaited  at  the  waist,  from  beneath 
which  protruded  the  tip  of  a  little  Morocco  shoe. 
.  .  .  Oh  !  you  must  not  make  fun  of  me,  dear 
Madame,  that  was  the  fashion  of  the  time ;  and 
I  do  not  know  whether  our  new  fashions  have 
nearly  so  much  simplicity,  brightness,  and  decorous 
grace. 

"  Monsieur  de  Lessay  informed  us  that,  in  conse- 
quence of  having  undertaken  the  publication  of  a 
historical  atlas,  he  had  come  back  to  live  in  Paris 
and  that  he  would  be  pleased  to  occupy  his  former 
apartment,  if  it  was  still  vacant.  My  father  asked 
Mademoiselle  de  Lessay  whether  she  was  pleased 
to  visit  the  capital.  She  appeared  to  be,  for  her 
smile  blossomed  out  in  reply.  She  smiled  at  the 
windows  that  looked  out  upon  the  green  and 
luminous  garden  ;  she  smiled  at  the  bronze  Marius 
seated  among  the  ruins  of  Carthage  above  the  dial 
of  the  clock ;  she  smiled  at  the  old  yellow-velveted 
arm-chairs,  and  a*  the  poor  student  who  was 


i$2  THE  CRIME  OF 

afraid  to  lift  his  eyes  to  look  at  her.  From  that  day- 
— how  I  loved  her  ! 

"  But  here  we  are  already  at  the  Rue  de  Sevres, 
and  in  a  little  while  we  shall  be  in  sight  of  your 
windows.  I  am  a  very  bad  story-teller  ;  and  if  I 
were — by  some  impossible  chance — to  take  it  into 
my  head  to  compose  a  novel,  I  know  I  should 
never  succeed.  I  have  been  drawing  out  to  tire- 
some length  a  narrative  which  I  must  finish  briefly  ; 
for  there  is  a  certain  delicacy,  a  certain  grace  of 
soul,  which  an  old  man  could  not  help  offending 
by  any  complacent  eipatiation  upon  the  sentiments 
of  even  the  purest  love.  Let  us  take  a  short  turn 
on  this  boulevard,  lined  with  convents ;  and  my 
recital  will  be  easily  finished  within  the  distance 
separating  us  from  that  little  spire  you  see  over 
there.  .  .  . 

"  Monsieur  de  Lessay,  on  finding  that  I  had 
graduated  at  the  Ecole  des  Chartes,  judged  me 
worthy  to  assist  him  in  preparing  his  historical 
atlas.  The  plan  was  to  illustrate,  by  a  series  of 
maps,  what  the  old  philosopher  termed  the  Vicissi- 
tudes of  Empires  from  the  time  of  Noah  down  to 
that  of  Charlemagne.  Monsieur  de  Lessay  had 
stored  up  in  his  head  all  the  errors  of  the  eighteenth 
century  in  regard  to  antiquity.  I  belonged,  so 
far  as  my  historical  studies  were  concerned,  to  the 
new  school ;  and  I  was  just  at  that  age  when  one 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  153 

does  not  know  how  to  dissemble.  The  manner  in 
which  the  old  man  understood,  or,  rather,  mis- 
understood, the  epoch  of  the  Barbarians — his 
obstinate  determination  to  find  in  remote  antiquity- 
only  ambitious  princes,  hypocritical  and  avaricious 
prelates,  virtuous  citizens,  poet-philosophers,  and 
other  personages  who  never  existed  outside  of  the 
novels  of  Marmontel, — made  me  dreadfully  unhappy, 
and  at  first  used  to  excite  me  into  attempts  at 
argument, — rational  enough,  but  perfectly  useless 
and  sometimes  dangerous,  for  Monsieur  de  Lessay 
was  very  irascible,  and  Clementine  was  very  beauti- 
ful. Between  her  and  him  I  passed  many  hours 
of  torment  and  of  delight.  I  was  in  love  ;  I  was  a 
coward,  and  I  granted  to  him  all  that  he  demanded 
of  me  in  regard  to  the  political  and  historical 
aspect  which  the  Earth — that  was  at  a  later  day 
to  bear  Clementine — presented  in  the  time  of 
Abraham,  of  Menes,  and  of  Deucalion. 

"  As  fast  as  we  drew  our  maps  Mademoiselle  de 
Lessay  tinted  them  in  water-colours.  Bending 
over  the  table,  she  held  the  brush  lightly  between 
two  fingers ;  the  shadow  of  her  eyelashes  descended 
upon  her  cheeks,  and  bathed  her  half-closed  eyes 
in  a  delicious  penumbra.  Sometimes  she  would 
lift  her  head,  and  I  would  see  her  lips  pout.  There 
was  so  much  expression  in  her  beauty  that  she  could 
not  breathe  without  seeming  to  sigh ;  and  her 


154  THE  CRIME  OF 

most  ordinary  poses  used  to  throw  me  into  the 
deepest  ecstasies  of  admiration.  Whenever  I  gazed 
at  her  I  fully  agreed  with  Monsieur  de  Lessay  that 
Jupiter  had  once  reigned  as  a  despot-king  over  the 
mountainous  regions  of  Thessaly,  and  that  Orpheus 
had  committed  the  imprudence  of  leaving  the 
teaching  of  philosophy  to  the  clergy.  I  am  not  now 
quite  sure  whether  I  was  a  coward  or  a  hero  when  I 
accorded  all  this  to  the  obstinate  old  man. 

"  Mademoiselle  de  Lessay,  I  must  acknowledge, 
paid  very  little  attention  to  me.  But  this  indif- 
ference seemed  to  me  so  just  and  so  natural  that  I 
never  even  dreamed  of  thinking  I  had  a  right  to 
complain  about  it ;  it  made  me  unhappy,  but 
without  my  knowing  that  I  was  unhappy  at  the 
time.  I  was  hopeful ; — we  had  then  only  got  as 
far  as  the  First  Assyrian  Empire. 

"  Monsieur  de  Lessay  came  every  evening  to 
take  coffee  with  my  father.  I  do  not  know  how 
they  became  such  friends ;  for  it  would  have  been 
difficult  to  find  two  characters  more  oppositely 
constituted.  My  father  was  a  man  who  admired 
very  few  things,  but  was  capable  of  excusing  a  great 
many.  Still,  as  he  grew  older,  he  evinced  more 
and  more  dislike  of  everything  in  the  shape  ol 
exaggeration.  He  clothed  his  ideas  with  a  thousand 
delicate  shades  of  expression,  and  never  pronounced 
an  opinion  without  all  sorts  of  reservations.  These 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  155 

conversational  habits,  natural  to  a  finely  trained 
mind,  used  greatly  to  irritate  the  dry,  terse  old 
aristocrat,  who  was  never  in  the  least  disarmed  by 
the  moderation  of  an  adversary — quite  the  contrary  ! 
I  always  foresaw  one  danger.  That  danger  was 
Bonaparte.  My  father  had  not  himself  retained 
any  particular  affection  for  his  memory ;  but, 
having  worked  under  his  direction,  he  did  not  like 
to  hear  him  abused,  especially  in  favour  of  the 
Bourbons,  against  whom  he  had  serious  reason  to 
feel  resentment.  Monsieur  de  Lessay,  more  of  a 
Voltairean  and  a  Legitimist  than  ever,  now  traced 
back  to  Bonaparte  the  origin  of  every  social,  political, 
and  religious  evil.  Such  being  the  situation,  the 
idea  of  Uncle  Victor  made  me  feel  particularly 
uneasy.  This  terrible  uncle  had  become  absolutely 
insufferable  now  that  his  sister  was  no  longer  there 
to  calm  him  down.  The  harp  of  David  was  broken, 
and  Saul  was  wholly  delivered  over  to  the  spirit 
of  madness.  The  fall  of  Charles  X.  had  increased 
the  audacity  of  the  old  Napoleonic  veteran,  who 
uttered  all  imaginable  bravadoes.  He  no  longer 
frequented  our  house,  which  had  become  too  silent 
for  him.  But  sometimes,  at  the  dinner-hour,  we 
would  see  him  suddenly  make  his  appearance,  all 
covered  with  flowers,  like  a  mausoleum.  Ordinarily 
he  would  sit  down  to  table  with  an  oath,  growled  out 
from  the  very  bottom  of  his  chest,  and  brag,  between 


156  THE  CRIME  OF 

every  two  mouthfuls,  of  his  good  fortune  with  the 
ladies  as  a  vieux  brave.  Then,  when  the  dinner 
tvas  over,  he  would  fold  up  his  napkin  in  the  shape 
of  a  bishop's  mitre,  gulp  down  half  a  decanter  of 
brandy,  and  rush  away  with  the  hurried  air  of  a 
man  terrified  at  the  mere  idea  of  remaining  for  any 
length  of  time,  without  drinking,  in  conversation 
with  an  old  philosopher  and  a  young  scholar.  I 
felt  perfectly  sure  that,  if  ever  he  and  Monsieur  de 
Lessay  should  come  together,  all  would  be  lost. 
But  that  day  came,  madame  ! 

"  The  captain  was  almost  hidden  by  flowers  that 
day,  and  seemed  so  much  like  a  monument  com- 
memorating the  glories  of  the  Empire  that  one 
would  have  liked  to  pass  a  garland  of  immortelles 
over  each  of  his  arms.  He  was  in  an  extraordinarily 
good  humour  ;  and  the  first  person  to  profit  by  that 
good  humour  was  our  cook — for  he  put  his  arm 
round  her  waist  while  she  was  placing  the  roast  on 
the  table. 

"  After  dinner  he  pushed  away  the  decanter 
presented  to  him,  observing  that  he  was  going  to 
burn  some  brandy  in  his  coffee  later  on.  I  asked 
him  tremblingly  whether  he  would  not  prefer  to 
have  his  coffee  at  once.  He  was  very  suspicious,  and 
not  at  all  dull  of  comprehension — my  Uncle  Victor. 
My  precipitation  seemed  to  him  in  very  bad  taste ; 
for  he  looked  at  me  in  a  peculiar  way,  and  said, 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  157 

"  *  Patience  !  my  nephew.  It  isn't  the  business 
of  the  baby  of  the  regiment  to  sound  the  retreat  i 
Devil  take  it  !  You  must  be  in  a  great  hurry, 
Master  Pedant,  to  see  if  I've  got  spurs  on  my  boots  !  ' 

"  It  was  evident  the  captain  had  divined  that  I 
wanted  him  to  go.  And  I  knew  him  well  enough  to 
be  sure  that  he  was  going  to  stay.  He  stayed.  The 
least  circumstances  of  that  evening  remain  impressed 
on  my  memory.  My  uncle  was  extremely  jovial. 
The  mere  idea  of  being  in  somebody's  way  was 
enough  to  keep  him  in  good  humour.  He  told  us, 
in  regular  barrack  style,  ma  foi  !  a  certain  story 
about  a  monk,  a  trumpet,  and  five  bottles  of  Cham- 
bertin,  which  must  have  been  much  enjoyed  in 
garrison  society,  but  which  I  would  not  venture  to 
repeat  to  you,  Madame,  even  if  I  could  remember 
it.  When  we  passed  into  the  parlour,  the  captain 
called  attention  to  the  bad  condition  of  our  andirons, 
and  learnedly  discoursed  on  the  merits  of  rotten- 
stone  as  a  brass-polisher.  Not  a  word  on  the  sub- 
ject of  politics.  He  was  husbanding  his  forces. 
Eight  o'clock  sounded  from  the  ruins  of  Carthage 
on  the  mantelpiece.  It  was  Monsieur  de  Lessay's 
hour.  A  few  moments  later  he  entered  the  parloui 
with  his  daughter.  The  ordinary  evening  chat 
began.  Clementine  sat  down  and  began  to  work 
on  some  embroidery  beside  the  lamp,  whose  shade 
left  her  pretty  head  in  a  soft  shadow,  and  threw 


158  THE  CRIME  OF 

down  upon  her  fingers  a  radiance  that  made  then* 
seem  almost  self-luminous.  Monsieur  de  Lessay 
spoke  of  a  comet  announced  by  the  astronomers, 
and  developed  some  theories  in  relation  to  the 
subject,  Vrhich,  however  audacious,  betrayed  at 
least  a  cer*ain  degree  of  intellectual  culture.  My 
father,  who  knew  a  good  deal  about  astronomy, 
advanced  some  sound  ideas  of  his  own,  which  he 
ended  up  with  his  eternal,  '  But  what  do  we  know 
about  it,  after  all  ? '  In  my  turn  I  cited  the  opinion 
of  our  neighbour  of  the  Observatory — the  great 
Arago.  My  Uncle  Victor  declared  that  comets 
had  a  peculiar  influence  on  the  quality  of  wines^ 
and  related  in  support  of  this  view  a  jolly  tavern- 
story.  I  was  so  delighted  with  the  turn  the  con- 
versation had  taken  that  I  did  all  in  my  power  to 
maintain  it  in  the  same  groove,  with  the  help  of  my 
most  recent  studies,  by  a  long  exposition  of  the 
chemical  composition  of  those  nebulous  bodies 
which,  although  extending  over  a  length  of  billions 
of  leagues,  could  be  contained  in  a  small  bottle. 
My  father,  a  little  surprised  at  my  unusual  eloquence, 
watched  me  with  his  peculiar,  placid,  ironical  smile. 
But  one  cannot  always  remain  in  heaven.  I  spoke, 
as  I  looked  at  Clementine,  of  a  certain  *  comete ' 
of  diamonds,  which  I  had  been  admiring  in  a 
jeweller's  window  the  evening  before.  It  was  a 
most  unfortunate  inspiration  of  mine. 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  159 

" '  Ah  !  my  nephew,'  cried  Uncle  Victor,  '  that 
comete  of  yours  was  nothing  to  the  one  which  the 
Empress  Josephine  wore  in  her  hair  when  she  came 
to  Strasburg  to  distribute  crosses  to  the  army.' 

"  *  That  little  Josephine  was  very  fond  of  finery 
and  display,'  observed  Monsieur  de  Lessay,  between 
two  sips  of  coffee.  *  I  do  not  blame  her  for  it ;  she 
had  good  qualities,  though  rather  frivolous  in  cha- 
racter. She  was  a  Tascher,  and  she  conferred  a 
great  honour  on  Bonaparte  in  marrying  him.  To 
say  a  Tascher  does  not,  of  course,  mean  a  great 
deal ;  but  to  say  a  Bonaparte  simply  means  nothing 
»t  all.' 

"  '  What  do  you  mean  by  that,  Monsieur  the 
Marquis  ?  '  demanded  Captain  Victor. 

"  *  I  am  not  a  marquis,'  dryly  responded  Mon- 
sieur de  Lessay  ;  *  and  I  mean  simply  that  Bonaparte 
would  have  been  very  well  suited  had  he  married 
one  of  those  cannibal  women  described  by  Captain 
Cook  in  his  voyages — naked,  tattooed,  with  a  ring 
in  her  nose — devouring  with  delight  putrefied 
human  flesh.' 

"  I  had  foreseen  it,  and  in  my  anguish  (O  pitiful 
human  heart  !)  my  first  idea  was  about  the  remark- 
able exactness  of  my  anticipations.  I  must  say 
that  the  captain's  reply  belonged  to  the  sublime 
order.  He  put  his  arms  akimbo,  eyed  Monsieur  de 
Lessay  contemptuously  from  head  to  foot,  and  said, 


160  THE  CRIME  OF 

"  *  Napoleon,  Monsieur  the  Vidame,  had  another 
spouse  besides  Josephine,  another  spouse  besides 
Marie-Louise.  That  companion  you  know  nothing 
of  ;  but  I  have  seen  her,  close  to  me.  She  wears  a 
mantle  of  azure  gemmed  with  stars ;  she  is  crowned 
with  laurels ;  the  Cross-of-Honour  flames  upon  her 
breast.  Her  name  is  GLORY  ! ' 

"  Monsieur  de  Lessay  set  his  cup  on  the  mantel- 
piece, and  quietly  observed, 

"  '  Your  Bonaparte  was  a  blackguard  ! ' 

"  My  father  rose  up  calmly,  extended  his  arm,  and 
said  very  softly  to  Monsieur  de  Lessay, 

"  '  Whatever  the  man  was  who  died  at  St.  Helena, 
I  worked  for  ten  years  in  his  government,  and  my 
brother-in-law  was  three  times  wounded  under  his 
eagles.  I  beg  of  you,  dear  sir  and  friend,  never  to 
forget  these  facts  in  future.' 

"  What  the  sublime  and  burlesque  insolence  of 
the  captain  could  not  do,  the  courteous  remon- 
strance of  my  father  effected  immediately,  throwing 
Monsieur  de  Lessay  into  a  furious  passion. 

"  '  I  did  forget,'  he  exclaimed,  between  his  set 
teeth,  livid  in  his  rage,  and  fairly  foaming  at  the 
mouth  ;  '  the  herring-cask  always  smells  of  herring, 
and  when  one  has  been  in  the  service  of  rascals ' 

"  As  he  uttered  the  word,  the  Captain  sprang  at 
his  throat ;  I  am  sure  he  would  have  strangled  him 
upon  the  spot  but  for  his  daughter  and  me. 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  161 

"  My  father,  a  little  paler  than  his  wont,  stood 
there  with  his  arms  folded,  and  watched  the  scene 
with  a  look  of  inexpressible  pity.  What  followed 
was  still  more  lamentable — but  why  dwell  further 
upon  the  folly  of  two  old  men.  Finally  I  succeeded 
in  separating  them.  Monsieur  de  Lessay  made  a 
sign  to  his  daughter  and  left  the  room.  As  she 
was  following  him,  I  ran  out  into  the  stairway 
after  her. 

"  *  Mademoiselle,'  I  said  to  her,  wildly,  taking  her 
hand  as  I  spoke,  *  I  love  you  !  I  love  you  ! ' 

"  For  a  moment  she  pressed  my  hand ;  her  lips 
opened.  What  was  it  that  she  was  going  to  say  to 
me  ?  But  suddenly,  lifting  her  eyes  towards  her 
father  ascending  the  stairs,  she  drew  her  hand  away, 
and  made  me  a  gesture  of  farewell. 

"  I  never  saw  her  again.  Her  father  went  to 
live  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Pantheon,  in  an 
apartment  which  he  had  rented  for  the  sale  of  his 
historical  atlas.  He  died  in  it  a  few  months  after- 
wards of  an  apoplectic  stroke.  His  daughter,  I 
was  told,  retired  to  Caen  to  live  with  some  aged 
relative.  It  was  there  that,  later  on,  she  married 
a  bank-clerk,  the  same  Noel  Alexandre  who  became 
so  rich  and  died  so  poor. 

"  As  for  me,  Madame,  I  have  lived  alone,  at  peace 
with  myself ;  my  existence,  equally  exempt  from 
great  pains  and  great  joys,  has  been  tolerably 


162  THE  CRIME  OF 

happy.  But  for  many  years  I  could  never  see  an 
empty  chair  beside  my  own  of  a  winter's  evening 
without  feeling  a  sudden  painful  sinking  at  my 
heart.  Last  year  I  learned  from  you,  who  had 
known  her,  the  story  of  her  old  age  and  death.  I 
saw  her  daughter  at  your  house.  I  have  seen  her  ; 
but  I  cannot  yet  say  like  the  aged  man  of  Scripture, 
'  And  now,  0  Lord,  let  thy  servant  depart  in  -peace  !  ' 
For  if  an  old  fellow  like  me  can  be  of  any  use  to 
anybody,  I  would  wish,  with  your  help,  to  devote 
my  last  energies  and  abilities  to  the  care  of  this 
orphan." 

I  had  uttered  these  last  words  in  Madame 
de  Gabry's  own  vestibule ;  and  I  was  about 
to  take  leave  of  my  kind  guide  when  she  said 
to  me, 

"  My  dear  Monsieur,  I  cannot  help  you  in  this 
matter  as  much  as  I  would  like  to  do.  Jeanne  is  an 
orphan  and  a  minor.  You  cannot  do  anything  for 
her  without  the  authorisation  of  her  guardian." 

'  Ah  !  "     I  exclaimed,  "  I  had  not  the  least  idea 
in  the  world  that  Jeanne  had  a  guardian  !  " 

Madame  de  Gabry  looked  at  me  with  visible 
surprise.  She  had  not  expected  to  find  the  old 
man  quite  so  simple 

She  resumed  : 

"  The  guardian  of  Jeanne  Alexandre  is  Maitre 
Mouche,  notary  at  Levallois-Perret.  I  am  afraid 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  163 

you  will  not  be  able  to  come  to  any  understanding 
with  him  ;  for  he  is  a  very  serious  person." 

"  Why  !  good  God  !  "  I  cried,  "  with  what  kind  of 
people  can  you  expect  me  to  have  any  sort  of  under- 
standing at  my  age,  except  serious  persons." 

She  smiled  with  a  sweet  mischievousness — just 
as  my  father  used  to  smile — and  answered : 

"  With  those  who  are  like  you — the  innocent 
folks  who  wear  their  hearts  on  their  sleeves.  Mon- 
sieur Mouche  is  not  exactly  a  man  of  that  kind.  He 
is  cunning  and  light-fingered.  But  although  I 
have  very  little  liking  for  him,  we  will  go  together 
and  see  him,  if  you  wish,  and  ask  his  permission  to 
visit  Jeanne,  whom  he  has  sent  to  a  boarding-school 
at  Les  Ternes,  where  she  is  very  unhappy." 

We  agreed  at  once  upon  a  day  ;  I  kissed  Madame 
de  Gabry's  hands,  and  we  bade  each  other  good-bye. 


From  May  2  to  May  5. 

I  HAVE  seen  him  in  his  office,  Maitre  Mouche, 
the  guardian  of  Jeanne.  Small,  thin,  and  dry  ;  his 
complexion  looks  as  if  it  was  made  out  of  the  dust  of 
his  pigeon-holes.  He  is  a  spectacled  animal ;  for 
to  imagine  him  without  his  spectacles  would  be 
impossible.  I  have  heard  him  speak,  this  Maitre 
Mouche  ;  he  has  a  voice  like  a  tin  rattle,  and  he 
uses  choice  phrases ;  but  I  should  have  been  better 


164  THE  CRIME  OF 

pleased  if  he  had  not  chosen  his  phrases  so  carefully. 
I  have  observed  him,  this  Maitre  Mouche  ;  he  is 
very  ceremonious,  and  watches  his  visitors  slyly  out 
of  the  corner  of  his  eye. 

Maitre  Mouche  is  quite  pleased,  he  informs  us ; 
he  is  delighted  to  find  we  have  taken  such  an 
interest  in  his  ward.  But  he  does  not  think  we  are 
placed  in  this  world  just  to  amuse  ourselves.  No  : 
he  does  not  believe  it ;  and  I  am  free  to  acknowledge 
that  anybody  in  his  company  is  likely  to  reach  the 
same  conclusion,  so  little  is  he  capable  of  inspiring 
joyfulness.  He  fears  that  it  would  be  giving  his  dear 
ward  a  false  and  pernicious  idea  of  life  to  allow  her 
too  much  enjoyment.  It  is  for  that  reason  that  he 
requests  Madame  de  Gabry  not  to  invite  the  young 
girl  to  her  house  except  at  very  long  intervals. 

We  left  the  dusty  notary  and  his  dusty  study  with 
a  permit  in  due  form  (everything  which  issues  from 
the  office  of  Maitre  Mouche  is  in  due  form)  to  visit 
Mademoiselle  Jeanne  Alexandre  on  the  first  Thurs- 
day of  each  month  at  Mademoiselle  Prefere's  private 
school,  Rue  Demours,  Aux  Ternes. 

The  first  Thursday  in  May  I  set  out  to  pay  a 
visit  to  MademoLelle  Prefere,  whose  establishment 
I  discerned  from  afar  off  by  a  big  sign,  painted  with 
blue  letters.  That  blue  tint  was  the  first  indica- 
tion I  received  of  Mademoiselle  Prefere's  character, 
which  I  was  able  to  see  more  of  later  on.  A  scared- 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  165 

looking  servant  took  my  card,  and  abandoned  me 
without  one  word  of  hope  at  the  door  of  a  chilly 
parlour,  full  of  that  stale  odour  peculiar  to  the 
dining-rooms  of  educational  establishments.  The 
floor  of  this  parlour  had  been  waxed  with  such  piti- 
less energy,  that  I  remained  for  awhile  in  distress 
upon  the  threshold.  But  happily  observing  that 
little  strips  of  woollen  carpet  had  been  scattered 
over  the  floor  in  front  of  each  horse-hair  chair,  I 
succeeded,  by  cautiously  stepping  from  one  carpet- 
island  to  another,  in  reaching  the  angle  of  the 
mantelpiece,  where  I  sat  down  quite  out  of  breath. 
Over  the  mantelpiece,  in  a  large  gilded  frame, 
was  a  written  document,  entitled,  in  flamboyant 
Gothic  lettering,  Tableau  d'Honneur,  with  a  long 
array  of  names  underneath,  among  which  I  did 
not  have  the  pleasure  of  finding  that  of  Jeanne 
Alexandre.  After  having  read  over  several  times 
the  names  of  those  girl-pupils  who  had  thus  made 
themselves  honoured  in  the  eyes  of  Mademoiselle 
Prefere,  I  began  to  feel  uneasy  at  not  hearing  any 
one  coming.  Mademoiselle  Prefere  would  certainly 
have  succeeded  in  establishing  the  absolute  silence 
of  the  interstellar  spaces  throughout  her  pedagogical 
domains,  had  it  not  been  that  the  sparrows  had 
chosen  her  yard  to  assemble  in  by  legions,  and  chirp 
at  the  top  of  their  voices.  It  was  a  pleasure  to 
hear  them.  But  there  was  no  way  of  seeing  them — 

M 


166  THE  CRIME  OF 

through  the  ground-glass  windows.  I  had  to 
content  myself  with  the  sights  of  the  parlour, 
decorated  from  floor  to  ceiling,  on  all  of  its  four 
walls,  with  drawings  executed  by  the  pupils  of  the 
institution.  There  were  Vestals,  flowers,  thatched 
cottages,  column-capitals,  and  an  enormous  head  of 
Tatius,  King  of  the  Sabines,  bearing  the  signature 
Estette  Mouton. 

I  had  already  passed  some  time  in  admiring  the 
energy  with  which  Mademoiselle  Mouton  had 
delineated  the  bushy  eyebrows  and  the  fierce  gaze  of 
the  antique  warrior,  when  a  sound,  faint  like  the 
rustling  of  a  dead  leaf  moved  by  the  wind,  caused  me 
to  turn  my  head.  It  was  not  a  dead  leaf  at  all — 
it  was  Mademoiselle  Prefere.  With  hands  joined 
before  her,  she  came  gliding  over  the  mirror-polish 
of  that  wonderful  floor  as  the  Saints  of  the  Golden 
Legend  were  wont  to  glide  over  the  crystal  surface 
of  the  waters.  But  upon  any  other  occasion,  I  am 
sure,  Mademoiselle  Prefere  would  not  have  made  me 
think  in  the  least  about  those  virgins  dear  to  mystical 
fancy.  Her  face  rather  gave  me  the  idea  of  a 
russet-apple  preserved  for  a  whole  winter  in  an  attic 
by  some  economical  housekeeper.  Her  shoulders 
were  covered  with  a  fringed  pelerine,  which  had 
nothing  at  all  remarkable  about  it,  but  which  she 
wore  as  if  it  were  a  sacerdotal  vestment,  or  the 
symbol  of  »ome  high  civic  function. 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  167 

I  explained  to  her  the  purpose  of  my  visit,  and 
gave  her  my  letter  of  introduction. 

"  Ah  ! — so  you  saw  Monsieur  Mouche  !  "  she 
exclaimed.  "  Is  his  health  very  good  ?  He  is 
the  most  upright  of  men,  the  most " 

She  did  not  finish  the  phrase,  but  raised  her  eyes 
to  the  ceiling.  My  own  followed  the  direction  of 
their  gaze,  and  observed  a  little  spiral  of  paper  lace, 
suspended  from  the  place  of  the  chandelier,  which 
was  apparently  destined,  so  far  as  I  could  discover, 
to  attract  the  flies  away  from  the  gilded  mirror- 
frames  and  the  Tableau  d'Honneur. 

"  I  have  met  Mademoiselle  Jeanne  Alexandre,"  I 
observed,  "  at  the  residence  of  Madame  de  Gabry, 
and  had  reason  to  appreciate  the  excellent  character 
and  quick  intelligence  of  the  young  girl.  As  I  used  to 
know  her  parents  very  well,  the  friendship  which  I 
felt  for  them  naturally  inclines  me  to  take  an 
interest  in  her." 

Mademoiselle  Prefere,  in  lieu  of  making  any 
reply,  sighed  profoundly,  pressed  her  mysterious 
pelerine  to  her  heart,  and  again  contemplated  the 
paper  spiral. 

At  last  she  observed, 

"  Since  you  were  once  the  friend  of  Monsieur 
and  Madame  Alexandre,  I  hope  and  trust  that, 
like  Monsieur  Mouche  and  myself,  you  deplore 
those  crazy  speculations  which  led  them  to 


i68  THE  CRIME  OF 

ruin,  and  reduced  their  daughter  to  absolute 
poverty ! " 

I  thought  to  myself,  on  hearing  these  words,  how 
very  wrong  it  is  to  be  unlucky,  and  how  unpardon- 
able such  an  error  on  the  part  of  those  previously  in 
a  position  worthy  of  envy.  Their  fall  at  once 
avenges  and  flatters  us ;  and  we  are  wholly  pitiless. 

After  having  answered,  very  frankly,  that  I  knew 
nothing  whatever  about  the  history  of  the  bank,  1 
asked  the  schoolmistress  if  she  was  satisfied  with 
Mademoiselle  Alexandre. 

"  That  child  is  indomitable ! "  cried  Made- 
moiselle Prefere. 

And  she  assumed  an  attitude  of  lofty  resignation, 
to  symbolise  the  difficult  situation  she  was  placed 
in  by  a  pupil  so  hard  to  train.  Then,  with  more 
calmness  of  manner,  she  added  : 

"  The  young  person  is  not  unintelligent.  But 
she  cannot  resign  herself  to  learn  things  by 
rule." 

What  a  strange  old  maid  was  this  Mademoiselle 
Prefere !  She  walked  without  lifting  her  legs, 
and  spoke  without  moving  her  lips !  Without, 
however,  considering  her  peculiarities  for  more 
than  a  reasonable  instant,  I  replied  that  principles 
were,  no  doubt,  very  excellent  things,  and  that  I 
could  trust  myself  to  her  judgment  in  regard  to 
their  value ;  but  that,  after  all,  when  one  had 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  169 

learned  something,  it  made  very  little  difference 
what  method  had  been  followed  in  the  learning 
of  it. 

Mademoiselle  made  a  slow  gesture  of  dissent. 
Then,  with  a  sigh,  she  declared, 

"  Ah,  Monsieur  !  those  who  do  not  understand 
educational  methods  are  apt  to  have  very  false  ideas 
on  these  subjects.  I  am  certain  they  express 
their  opinions  with  the  best  intentions  in  the 
world  ;  but  they  would  do  better,  a  great  deal 
better,  to  leave  all  such  questions  to  competent 
people." 

I  did  not  attempt  to  argue  further ;  and  simply 
asked  her  whether  I  could  see  Mademoiselle  Alex- 
andre  at  once. 

She  looked  at  her  pelerine,  as  if  trying  to  read 
in  the  entanglement  of  its  fringes,  as  in  a  conjuring- 
book,  what  sort  of  answer  she  ought  to  make  ;  then 
said, 

"  Mademoiselle  Alexandre  has  a  penance  to 
perform,  and  a  class-lesson  to  give  ;  but  I  should 
be  very  sorry  to  let  you  put  yourself  to  the  trouble 
of  coming  here  all  to  no  purpose.  I  am  going  to 
send  for  her.  Only  first  allow  me,  Monsieur — as 
is  our  custom — to  put  your  name  on  the  visitor's 
register." 

She  sat  down  at  the  table,  opened  a  large  copy- 
book, and,  taking  out  Maitre  Mouche's  letter  again 


170  THE  CRIME  OF 

from  under  her  pelerine,  where  she  had  placed  it, 
looked  at  it,  and  began  to  write. 

"  *  Bonnard  ' — with  a  d,  is  it  not  ?  "  she  asked. 
"  Excuse  me  for  being  so  particular  ;  but  my  opinion 
is  that  proper  names  have  an  orthography.  We 
have  dictation-lessons  in  proper  names,  Monsieur, 
at  this  school — historical  proper  names,  of  course  !  " 

After  I  had  written  down  my  name  in  a  running 
hand,  she  inquired  whether  she  should  not  put  down 
after  it  my  profession,  title,  quality — such  as 
"  retired  merchant,"  "  employe,"  "  independent 
gentleman,"  or  something  else.  There  was  a 
column  in  her  register  expressly  for  that  purpose. 

"  My  goodness,  Madame  !  "  I  said,  "  if  you  must 
absolutely  fill  that  column  of  yours,  put  down 
'  Member  of  the  Institute.'  " 

It  was  still  Mademoiselle  Prefere's  pelerine  I  saw 
before  me  ;  but  it  was  not  Mademoiselle  Prefere 
now  who  wore  it ;  it  was  a  totally  different  person, 
obliging,  gracious,  caressing,  radiant,  happy.  Her 
eyes  smiled  ;  the  little  wrinkles  of  her  face  (there 
were  a  vast  number  of  them  !)  also  smiled  ;  her 
mouth  smiled  likewise,  but  only  on  one  side.  I 
discovered  afterwards  that  was  her  best  side.  She 
spoke  :  her  voice  had  also  changed  with  her  manner ; 
it  was  now  sweet  as  honey. 

"  You  said,  Monsieur,  that  our  dear  Jeanne  was 
rery  intelligent.  I  discovered  the  same  thing 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  171 

myself,  and  I  am  proud  of  being  able  to  agree  with 
you.  This  young  girl  has  really  made  me  feel  a 
great  deal  of  interest  in  her.  She  has  what  I  call  a 
happy  disposition.  .  .  .  But  excuse  me  for  thus 
drawing  upon  your  valuable  time." 

She  summoned  the  servant-girl,  who  looked 
much  more  hurried  and  scared  than  before,  and  who 
vanished  with  the  order  to  go  and  tell  Mademoi- 
selle Alexandre  that  Monsieur  Sylvestre  Bonnard, 
Member  of  the  Institute,  was  waiting  to  see  her  in 
the  parlour. 

Mademoiselle  Prefere  had  barely  time  to  confide 
to  me  that  she  had  the  most  profound  respect  for  all 
decisions  of  the  Institute — whatever  they  might  be — 
when  Jeanne  appeared,  out  of  breath,  red  as  a  poppy, 
with  her  eyes  very  wide  open,  and  her  arms  dangling 
helplessly  at  her  sides — charming  in  her  artless 
awkwardness. 

"  What  a  state  you  are  in,  my  dear  child  !  ** 
murmured  Mademoiselle  Prefere,  with  maternal 
sweetness,  as  she  arranged  the  girl's  collar. 

Jeanne  certainly  did  present  an  odd  aspect.  Her 
hair  combed  back,  and  imperfectly  held  by  a  net 
from  which  loose  curls  were  escaping  ;  her  slender 
arms,  sheathed  down  to  the  elbows  in  lustring 
sleeves  ;  her  hands,  which  she  did  not  seem  to 
know  what  to  do  with,  all  red  with  chilblains  ;  her 
dress,  much  too  short,  revealing  that  she  had  on 


172  THE  CRIME  OF 

stockings  much  too  large  for  her,  and  shoes  worn 
down  at  the  heel ;  and  a  skipping-rope  tied  round 
her  waist  in  lieu  of  a  belt, — all  combined  to  lend 
Mademoiselle  Jeanne  an  appearance  the  reverse  of 
presentable. 

"  Oh,  you  crazy  girl  !  '*  sighed  Mademoiselle 
Prefere,  who  now  seemed  no  longer  like  a  mother, 
but  lather  like  an  elder  sister. 

Then  she  suddenly  left  the  room,  gliding  like  a 
shadow  over  the  polished  floor. 

I  said  to  Jeanne, 

"  Sit  down,  Jeanne,  and  talk  to  me  as  you  would 
to  a  friend.  Are  you  not  better  satisfied  here  now 
than  you  were  last  year  ?  " 

She  hesitated  ;  then  answered  with  a  good-natured 
smile  of  resignation, 

"  Not  much  better." 

I  asked  her  to  tell  me  about  her  school  life.  She 
began  at  once  to  enumerate  all  her  different  studies 
— piano,  style,  chronology  of  the  Kings  of  France, 
sewing,  drawing,  catechism,  deportment.  ...  I 
could  never  remember  them  all  !  She  still  held  in 
her  hands,  all  unconsciously,  the  two  ends  of  her 
ikipping-rope,  and  she  raised  and  lowered  them 
regularly  while  making  her  enumeration.  Then 
all  at  once  she  became  conscious  of  what  she  was 
doing,  blushed,  stammered,  and  became  so  confused 
that  I  had  to  renounce  my  desire  to  know  the  full 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  173 

programme    of    study    adopted    in     the    Preferc 
Institution. 

After  having  questioned  Jeanne  on  various 
matters,  and  obtained  only  the  vaguest  answers,  I 
perceived  that  her  young  mind  was  totally  absorbed 
by  the  skipping-rope,  and  I  entered  bravely  into 
that  grave  subject. 

"  So  you  have  been  skipping  ?  "  I  said.  "  It  is  a 
very  nice  amusement,  but  one  that  you  must  not 
exert  yourself  too  much  at ;  for  any  excessive 
exercise  of  that  kind  might  seriously  injure  your 
health,  and  I  should  be  very  much  grieved  about  it, 
Jeanne — I  should  be  very  much  grieved,  indeed ! " 

"  You  are  very  kind,  Monsieur,"the  young  girl 
said,  "  to  have  come  to  see  me  and  talk  to  me  like 
this.  I  did  not  think  about  thanking  you  when 
I  came  in,  because  I  was  too  much  surprised. 
Have  you  seen  Madame  de  Gabry  ?  Please  tell 
me  something  about  her,  Monsieur." 

"  Madame  de  Gabry,"  I  answered,  "  is  very  well. 
I  can  only  tell  you  about  her,  Jeanne,  what  an  old 
gardener  once  said  of  the  lady  of  the  castle,  his 
mistress,  when  somebody  anxiously  inquired  about 
her  :  '  Madame  is  in  her  road.'  Yes,  Madame  de 
Gabry  is  in  her  own  road  ;  and  you  know,  Jeanne, 
what  a  good  road  it  is,  and  how  steadily  she  can 
walk  upon  it.  I  went  out  with  her  the  other  da)  , 
very,  verv  far  away  from  the  house  ;  and  we  talked 


174  THE  CRIME  OF 

about  you.  We  talked  about  you,  my  child,  at 
your  mother's  grave." 

"  I  am  very  glad,"  said  Jeanne. 

And  then,  all  at  once,  she  began  to  cry. 

I  felt  too  much  reverence  for  those  generous  tears 
to  attempt  in  any  way  to  check  the  emotion  that  had 
evoked  them.  But  in  a  little  while,  as  the  girl 
wiped  her  eyes,  I  asked  her, 

"  Will  you  not  tell  me,  Jeanne,  why  you  were 
thinking  so  much  about  that  skipping-rope  a  little 
while  ago  ?  " 

"  Why,  indeed  I  will,  Monsieur.  It  was  only  be- 
cause I  had  no  right  to  come  into  the  parlour  with  a 
skipping-rope.  You  know,  of  course,  that  I  am  past 
the  age  for  playing  at  skipping.  But  when  the 
servant  said  there  was  an  old  gentleman  ...  oh  ! 
...  I  mean  .  .  .  that  a  gentleman  was  waiting  for  me 
in  the  parlour,  I  was  making  the  little  girls  jump. 
Then  I  tied  the  rope  round  my  waist  in  a  hurry,  so 
that  it  might  not  get  lost.  It  was  wrong.  But  I 
have  not  been  in  the  habit  of  having  many  people 
come  to  see  me.  And  Mademoiselle  Prefere  never 
lets  us  off  if  we  commit  any  breach  of  deportment  : 
so  I  know  she  is  going  to  punish  me,  and  I  am  very 
lorry  about  it.".  .  . 

"  That  is  too  bad,  Jeanne  !  " 

She  became  very  grave,  and  said, 

"  Yes,  Monsieur,  it  is  too  bad  ;  because  when  I  am 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  175 

punished  myself,  I  have  no  more  authority  over  the 
little  girls." 

I  did  not  at  once  fully  understand  the  nature  of 
this  unpleasantness ;  but  Jeanne  explained  to  me 
that,  as  she  was  charged  by  Mademoiselle  Prefere 
with  the  duties  of  taking  care  of  the  youngest  class, 
of  washing  and  dressing  the  children,  of  teaching 
them  how  to  behave,  how  to  sew,  how  to  say  the 
alphabet,  of  showing  them  how  to  play,  and,  finally, 
of  putting  them  to  bed  at  the  close  of  the  day,  she 
could  not  make  herself  obeyed  by  those  turbulent 
little  folks  on  the  days  she  was  condemned  to  wear 
a  night-cap  in  the  class-room,  or  to  eat  her  meals 
standing  up,  from  a  plate  turned  upside  down. 

Having  secretly  admired  the  punishments  devised 
by  the  Lady  of  the  Enchanted  Pelerine,  I  responded, 

"  Then,  if  I  understand  you  rightly,  Jeanne,  you 
are  at  once  a  pupil  here  and  a  mistress  ?  It  is  a 
condition  of  existence  very  common  in  the  world. 
You  are  punished,  and  you  punish  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Monsieur  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  No  !  I  never 
punish  !  " 

"  Then,  I  suspect,"  said  I,  "  that  your  indul- 
gence gets  you  many  scoldings  from  Mademoiselle 
Prefere  ?  " 

She  smiled,  and  blinked. 

Then  I  said  to  her  that  the  troubles  in  which  we 
oft«n  involve  ourselves,  by  trying  to  act  according  to 


i;6  THE  CRIME  OF 

our  conscience  and  to  do  the  best  we  can,  are  never 
of  the  sort  that  totally  dishearten  and  weary  us, 
but  are,  on  the  contrary,  wholesome  trials.  This 
sort  of  philosophy  touched  her  very  little.  She 
even  appeared  totally  unmoved  by  my  moral 
exhortations.  But  was  not  this  quite  natural  on  her 
part  ? — and  ought  I  not  to  have  remembered  that 
it  is  only  those  no  longer  innocent  who  can  find 
pleasure  in  the  systems  of  moralists  ?  .  .  .  I  had  at 
least  good  sense  enough  to  cut  short  my  sermonising. 

"  Jeanne,"  I  said,  "  you  were  asking  a  moment 
ago  about  Madame  de  Gabry.  Let  us  talk  about 
that  Fairy  of  yours.  She  was  very  prettily  made. 
Do  you  do  any  modelling  in  wax  now  ? " 

"  I  have  not  a  bit  of  wax,"  she  exclaimed,  wringing 
her  hands — "  no  wax  at  all !  " 

"  No  wax !  "  I  cried — "  in  a  republic  of  busy 
bees  ?  " 

She  laughed. 

"  And,  then,  you  see,  Monsieur,  my  figurines,  as 
you  call  them,  are  not  in  Mademoiselle  Pre'fere's 
programme.  But  I  had  begun  to  make  a  very  small 
Saint-George  for  Madame  de  Gabry — a  tiny  little 
Saint-George,  with  a  golden  cuirass.  Is  not  that 
right,  Monsieur  Bonnard — to  give  Saint-George  a 
gold  cuirass  ?  " 

"  Quite  right,  Jeanne  ;  but  what  became  of  it  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  tell  you.     I  kept  it  in  my  pocket 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  177 

because  I  had  no  other  place  to  put  it,  and — and  I 

sat  down  on  it  by  mistake." 

She  drew  out  of  her  pocket  a  little  wax  figure, 
which  had  been  squeezed  out  of  all  resemblance  to 
human  form,  and  of  which  the  dislocated  limbs  were 
only  attached  to  the  body  by  their  wire  framework. 
At  the  sight  of  her  hero  thus  marred,  she  was  seized 
at  once  with  compassion  and  gaiety.  The  latter 
feeling  obtained  the  mastery,  and  she  burst  into  a 
clear  laugh,  which,  however,  stopped  as  suddenly 
as  it  had  begun. 

Mademoiselle  Prefere  stood  at  the  parlour  door, 
smiling. 

"  That  dear  child  !  "  sighed  the  schoolmistress 
in  her  tenderest  tone.  "  I  am  afraid  she  will  tire 
you.  And,  then,  your  time  is  so  precious  !  " 

I  begged  Mademoiselle  Prefere  to  dismiss  that 
illusion,  and,  rising  to  take  my  leave,  I  took  from 
my  pocket  some  chocolate-cakes  and  sweets  which 
I  had  brought  with  me. 

"  That  is  so  nice  !  "  said  Jeanne ;  "  there  will  be 
enough  to  go  round  the  whole  school." 

The  lady  of  the  pelerine  intervened 

"  Mademoiselle  Alexandre,"  she  said,  "  thank 
Monsieur  for  his  generosity." 

Jeanne  looked  at  her  for  an  instant  in  a  sullen 
way ;  then,  turning  to  me,  said  with  remarkable 
firmness, 


178  THE  CRIME  OF 

"  Monsieur,  I  thank  you  for  your  kindness  in 
coming  to  see  me." 

"  Jeanne,"  I  said,  pressing  both  her  hands,  "  re- 
main always  a  good,  truthful,  brave  girl.  Good- 
bye." 

As  she  left  the  room  with  her  packages  of  choco- 
late and  confectionery,  she  happened  to  strike  the 
handles  of  her  skipping-rope  against  the  back  of  a 
chair.  Mademoiselle  Prefere,  full  of  indignation, 
pressed  both  hands  over  her  heart,  under  her 
pelerine  ;  and  I  almost  expected  to  see  her  give  up 
her  scholastic  ghost. 

When  we  found  ourselves  alone,  she  recovered 
her  composure ;  and  I  must  say,  without  con- 
lidering  myself  thereby  flattered,  that  she  smiled 
upon  me  with  one  whole  side  of  her  face. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  I  said,  taking  advantage  of  her 
good  humour,  "  I  noticed  that  Jeanne  Alexandra 
looks  a  little  pale.  You  know  better  than  I  how 
much  consideration  and  care  a  young  girl  requires 
at  her  age.  It  would  only  be  doing  you  an  injustice 
by  implication  to  recommend  her  still  more  earnestly 
to  your  vigilance." 

These  words  seemed  to  ravish  her  with  delight. 
She  lifted  her  eyes,  as  in  ecstasy,  to  the  paper  spirals 
of  the  ceiling,  and,  clasping  her  hands,  exclaimed, 

"  How  well  these  eminent  men  know  the  art  oi 
considering  the  most  trifling  details  1 " 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  179 

I  called  her  attention  to  the  fact  that  the  health 
of  a  young  girl  was  not  a  trifling  detail,  and  made  my 
farewell  bow.  But  she  stopped  me  on  the  threshold 
to  say  to  me,  very  confidentially, 

"  You  must  excuse  me,  Monsieur.  I  am  a 
woman,  and  I  love  glory.  I  cannot  conceal  from 
you  the  fact  that  I  feel  myself  greatly  honoured  by 
the  presence  of  a  Member  of  the  Institute  in  my 
humble  institution." 

I  duly  excused  the  weakness  of  Mademoiselle 
Prefere  ;  and,  thinking  only  of  Jeanne,  with  the 
blindness  of  egotism,  kept  asking  myself  all  along 
the  road,  "  What  are  we  going  to  do  with  this 
child  I  " 

June  3. 

I  HAD  escorted  to  the  Cimetiere  de  Marnes  that 
day  a  very  aged  colleague  of  mine  who,  to  use  the 
words  of  Goethe,  had  consented  to  die.  The  great 
Goethe,  whose  own  vital  force  was  something  ex- 
traordinary, actually  believed  that  one  never  dies 
until  one  really  wants  to  die — that  is  to  say,  when  all 
those  energies  which  resist  dissolution,  and  the  sum 
of  which  make  up  life  itself,  have  been  totally 
destroyed.  In  other  words,  he  believed  that  people 
only  die  when  it  is  no  longer  possible  for  them  to 
live.  Good  !  it  is  merely  a  question  of  properly 
understanding  one  another  ;  and  when  fully  com- 


i8o  THE  CRIME  OF 

prehended,  the  magnificent  idea  of  Goethe  onl) 
brings  us  quietly  back  to  the  song  of  La  Palisse. 

WeD,  my  excellent  colleague  had  consented  to 
die — thanks  to  several  successive  attacks  of  extremely 
persuasive  apoplexy — the  last  of  which  proved 
unanswerable.  I  had  been  very  little  acquainted 
with  him  during  his  lifetime  ;  but  it  seems  that  I 
became  his  friend  the  moment  he  was  dead,  for  our 
colleagues  assured  me  in  the  most  serious  manner, 
with  deeply  sympathetic  countenances,  that  I 
should  act  as  one  of  the  pall-bearers,  and  deliver 
an  address  over  the  tomb. 

After  having  read  very  badly  a  short  address  1 
had  written  as  well  as  I  could — which  is  not  saying 
much  for  it — I  started  out  for  a  walk  in  the  woods 
of  Ville-d'Avray,  and  followed,  without  leaning  too 
much  on  the  Captain's  cane,  a  shaded  path  on  which 
the  sunlight  fell,  through  foliage,  in  little  discs  of 
gold.  Never  had  the  scent  of  grass  and  fresh 
leaves, — never  had  the  beauty  of  the  sky  over  the 
trees,  and  the  serene  might  of  noble  tree  contours, 
so  deeply  affected  my  senses  and  all  my  being  ;  and 
the  pleasure  I  felt  in  that  silence,  broken  only  by 
faintest  tinkling  sounds,  was  at  once  of  the  senses 
and  of  the  soul. 

I  sat  down  in  the  shade  of  the  roadside  under  a 
clump  of  young  oaks.  And  there  I  made  a  promise 
to  myself  not  to  die,  or  at  least  not  to  consent  to  die. 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  181 

before  I  should  be  again  able  lo  sit  down  under  an 
oak,  where — in  the  great  peace  of  the  open  country — 
1  could  meditate  on  the  nature  ot  the  soul  and  the 
ultimate  destiny  ot  man.  A  bee,  whose  brown  breast- 
plate gleamed  in  the  sun  like  armour  of  old  gold, 
came  to  light  upon  a  mallow-flower  close  by  me — 
darkly  rich  in  colour,  and  fully  opened  upon  its 
tufted  stalk.  It  was  certainly  not  the  first  time  1 
had  witnessed  so  common  an  incident  ;  but  it  was 
the  first  time  that  1  had  watched  it  with  such  com- 
prehensive and  friendly  curiosity.  I  could  discern 
that  there  were  all  sorts  of  sympathies  between 
the  insect  and  the  flower — a  thousand  singular 
little  relationships  which  I  had  never  before  even 
suspected. 

Satiated  with  nectar,  the  insect  rose  and  buzzed 
away  in  a  straight  line,  while  I  lifted  myself  up  as 
best  I  could,  and  readjusted  myself  upon  my  legs. 

"  Adieu  !  "  1  said  to  the  flower  and  to  the  bee. 
"  Adieu  !  Heaven  grant  I  may  live  long  enough  to 
discover  the  secret  of  your  harmonies.  I  am  very 
tired.  But  man  is  so  made  that  he  car*  only  find 
relaxation  trom  one  kind  of  labour  by  taking  up 
another.  The  flowers  and  insects  will  give  me  that 
relaxation,  with  God's  will,  after  my  long  researches 
in  philology  and  diplomatics.  How  full  of  meaning 
is  that  old  myth  of  Antaeus  !  I  have  touched  the 
Earth  and  I  am  a  new  man  ;  and  now,  at  seventy 

N 


1 82  THE  CRIME  OF 

years  of  age,  new  feelings  of  curiosity  take  birth  in 
my  mind,  even  as  young  shoots  sometimes  spring  up 
from  the  hollow  trunk  of  an  aged  oak  !  " 

June  4. 

I  LIKE  to  look  out  of  my  window  at  the  Seine  and 
its  quays  on  those  soft  grey  mornings  which  give 
such  an  infinite  tenderness  of  tint  to  everything.  I 
have  seen  that  azure  sky  which  flings  so  luminous  a 
calm  over  the  Bay  of  Naples.  But  our  Parisian  sky 
is  more  animated,  more  kindly,  more  spiritual.  It 
smiles,  threatens,  caresses — takes  an  aspect  of 
melancholy  or  a  look  of  merriment  like  a  human 
gaze.  At  this  moment  it  is  pouring  down  a  very 
gentle  light  on  the  men  and  beasts  of  the  city  as  they 
accomplish  their  daily  tasks.  Over  there,  on  the 
opposite  bank,  the  stevedores  of  the  Port  Saint- 
Nicholas  are  unloading  a  cargo  of  cow's  horns ; 
while  two  men  standing  on  a  gangway  are  tossing 
sugar-loaves  from  one  to  the  other,  and  thence  to 
somebody  in  the  hold  of  a  steamer.  On  the  north 
quay,  the  cab-horses,  standing  in  a  line  under  the 
shade  of  the  plane-trees,  each  with  its  head  in  a 
nose-bag,  are  quietly  munching  their  oats,  while 
the  rubicund  drivers  are  drinking  at  the  counter  oj 
the  wine-seller  opposite,  but  all  the  while  keeping  a 
sharp  look-out  for  early  customers. 

The  dealers  in  second-hand  books  put  their  boxes 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  183 

on  the  parapet.  These  good  retailers  of  Mind,  who 
are  always  in  the  open  air,  with  blouses  loose  to  the 
breeze,  have  become  so  weatherbeaten  by  the  wind, 
the  rain,  the  frost,  the  snow,  the  fog,  and  the  great 
sun,  that  they  end  by  looking  very  much  like  the  old 
statues  of  cathedrals.  They  are  all  friends  of  mine, 
and  I  scarcely  ever  pass  by  their  boxes  without  pick- 
ing out  of  one  of  them  some  old  book  which  I  had 
always  been  in  need  of  up  to  that  very  moment, 
without  any  suspicion  of  the  fact  on  my  part. 

Then  on  my  return  home  I  have  to  endure  the 
outcries  of  my  housekeeper,  who  accuses  me  of 
bursting  all  my  pockets  and  filling  the  house  with 
waste  paper  to  attract  the  rats.  Therese  is  wise 
about  that,  and  it  is  because  she  is  wise  that  I  do  not 
listen  to  her  ;  for  in  spite  of  my  tranquil  mien,  I 
have  always  preferred  the  folly  of  the  passions  to  the 
wisdom  of  indifference.  But  just  because  my  own 
passions  are  not  of  that  sort  which  burst  out  with 
violence  to  devastate  and  kill,  the  common  mind  is 
not  aware  of  their  existence.  Nevertheless,  I  am 
greatly  moved  by  them  at  times,  and  it  has  more 
than  once  been  my  fate  to  lose  my  sleep  for  the  sake 
of  a  few  pages  written  by  some  forgotten  monk 
or  printed  by  some  humble  apprentice  of  Peter 
Schoeffer.  And  if  these  fierce  enthusiasms  are  slowly 
being  quenched  in  me,  it  is  only  because  I  am  being 
slowly  quenched  myself.  Our  passions  are  ourselve*. 


1 84  THE  CRIME  OF 

My  old  books  are  Me.  I  am  just  as  old  and  thumb- 
worn  as  they  are. 

A  light  breeze  sweeps  away,  along  with  the  dust  ot 
the  pavements,  the  winged  seeds  of  the  plane-trees, 
and  the  fragments  of  hay  dropped  from  the  mouths 
of  the  horses.  The  dust  is  nothing  remarkable  in 
itself ;  but  as  I  watch  it  flying,  I  remember  a 
moment  in  my  childhood  when  I  watched  just  such 
a  whirl  of  dust ;  and  my  old  Parisian  soul  is  much 
affected  by  that  sudden  recollection.  All  that  I  see 
from  my  window — that  horizon  which  extends  to 
the  left  as  far  as  the  hills  of  Chaillot,  and  enables  me 
to  distinguish  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  like  a  die  of 
stone,  the  Seine,  river  of  glory,  and  its  bridges,  the 
ash-trees  of  the  terrace  of  the  Tuileries,  the  Louvre 
of  the  Renaissance,  cut  and  graven  like  goldsmith- 
work  ;  and  on  my  right,  towards  the  Pont-Neuf 
(pons  Lutetice  Novus  dictus,  as  it  is  named  on  old 
engravings),  all  the  old  and  venerable  part  of  Paris, 
with  its  towers  and  spires  : — all  that  is  my  life,  it  is 
myself ;  and  I  should  be  nothing  but  for  all  those 
things  which  are  thus  reflected  in  me  through  my 
thousand  varying  shades  of  thought,  inspiring  me 
and  animating  me.  That  is  why  I  love  Paris  with 
an  immense  love. 

And  nevertheless  I  am  weary,  and  I  know  that 
there  can  be  no  rest  for  me  in  the  heart  of  this  great 
city  which  thinks  so  much,  which  has  taught  me  to 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  185 

think,  and  which  for  ever  urges  me  to  think  more. 
And  how  avoid  being  excited  among  all  these  books 
which  incessantly  tempt  my  curiosity  without  ever 
satisfying  it  ?  At  one  moment  it  is  a  date  I  have 
to  look  for  ;  at  another  it  is  the  name  of  a  place  I 
have  to  make  sure  of,  or  some  quaint  term  of  which 
it  is  important  to  determine  the  exact  meaning. 
Words  ? — why,  yes  !  words.  As  a  philologist,  I  am 
their  sovereign  ;  they  are  my  subjects,  and,  like 
a  good  king,  I  devote  my  whole  life  to  them.  But 
shall  I  not  be  able  to  abdicate  some  day  ?  I  have  an 
idea  that  there  is  somewhere  or  other,  quite  far 
from  here,  a  certain  little  cottage  where  I  could 
enjoy  the  quiet  I  so  much  need,  while  awaiting  that 
day  in  which  a  greater  quiet — that  which  can  be 
never  broken — shall  come  to  wrap  me  all  about.  I 
dream  of  a  bench  before  the  threshold,  and  of 
fields  spreading  away  out  of  sight.  But  I  must 
have  a  fresh  smiling  young  face  beside  me,  to 
reflect  and  concentrate  all  that  freshness  of  nature. 
I  could  then  imagine  myself  a  grandfather,  and  all 
the  long  void  of  my  life  would  be  filled.  .  .  . 

I  am  not  a  violent  man,  and  yet  I  become  easily 
vexed,  and  all  my  works  have  caused  me  quite  as 
much  pain  as  pleasure.  And  I  do  not  know  how 
it  is  that  I  still  keep  thinking  about  that  very  con- 
ceited and  very  inconsiderate  impertinence  which 
my  young  friend  of  the  Luxembourg  took  the 


1 86  THE  CRIME  OF 

liberty  to  utter  about  me  some  three  months  ago. 
I  do  not  call  him  "  friend  "  in  irony,  for  I  love 
studious  youth  with  all  its  temerities  and  imagina- 
tive eccentricities.  Still,  my  young  friend  certainly 
went  beyond  all  bounds.  Master  Ambroise  Pare, 
who  was  the  first  to  attempt  the  ligature  of  arteries, 
and  who,  having  commenced  his  profession  at  a 
time  when  surgery  was  only  performed  by  quack 
barbers,  nevertheless  succeeded  in  lifting  the  science 
to  the  high  place  it  now  occupies,  was  assailed  in  his 
old  age  by  all  the  young  sawbones'  apprentices. 
Being  grossly  abused  during  a  discussion  by  some 
young  addlehead  who  might  have  been  the  best  son 
in  the  world,  but  who  certainly  lacked  all  sense  of 
respect,  the  old  master  answered  him  in  his  treatise 
De  la  Mumie,  de  la  Licorne,  des  Venins  ft  de  la  Peste. 
"  I  pray  him,"  said  the  great  man — "  I  pray  him,  that 
if  he  desire  to  make  any  contradictions  to  my  reply, 
he  abandon  all  animosities,  and  treat  the  good  old 
man  with  gentleness."  This  answer  seems  admirable 
from  the  pen  of  Ambroise  Pare  ;  but  even  had  it 
been  written  by  a  village  bonesetter,  grown  grey  in 
his  calling,  and  mocked  by  some  young  stripling,  it 
would  still  be  worthy  of  all  praise. 

It  might  perhaps  seem  that  my  memory  of  the 
incident  had  been  kept  alive  only  by  a  base  feeling 
of  resentment.  I  thought  so  myself  at  first,  and 
reproached  myself  for  thus  dwelling  on  the  saying 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  187 

of  a  boy  who  could  not  yet  know  the  meaning  of  his 
own  words.  But  my  reflections  on  this  subject 
subsequently  took  a  better  course  :  that  is  why  I 
aow  note  them  down  in  my  diary.  I  remembered 
that  one  day  when  I  was  twenty  years  old  (that  was 
more  than  half  a  century  ago)  I  was  walking  about 
in  that  very  same  garden  of  the  Luxembourg  with 
some  comrades.  We  were  talking  about  our  old 
professors ;  and  one  of  us  happened  to  name 
Monsieur  Petit-Radel,  an  estimable  and  learned 
man,  who  was  the  first  to  throw  some  light  upon 
the  origin  of  early  Etruscan  civilisation,  but  who 
had  been  unfortunate  enough  to  prepare  a  chrono- 
logical table  of  the  lovers  of  Helen.  We  all  laughed 
a  great  deal  about  that  chronological  table  ;  and  I 
cried  out,  "  Petit-Radel  is  an  ass,  not  in  three 
letters,  but  in  twelve  whole  volumes  !  " 

This  foolish  speech  of  my  adolescence  was  uttered 
too  lightly  to  be  a  weight  on  my  conscience  as  an 
old  man.  May  God  kindly  prove  to  me  some  day 
that  I  never  used  any  less  innocent  shaft  of  speech 
in  the  battle  of  life  !  But  I  now  ask  myself  whether 
I  really  never  wrote,  at  any  time  in  my  life,  some- 
thing quite  as  unconsciously  absurd  as  the  chrono- 
logical table  of  the  lovers  of  Helen.  The  progress 
of  science  renders  useless  the  very  books  which  have 
been  the  greatest  aids  to  that  progress.  As  those 
works  are  no  longer  useful,  modern  youth  is  naturally 


188  THE  CRIME  OF 

inclined  to  believe  they  never  had  any  value  ;  it 
despises  them,  and  ridicules  them  if  they  happen 
to  contain  any  superannuated  opinion  whatever. 
That  was  why,  in  my  twentieth  year,  I  amused 
myself  at  the  expense  of  Monsieur  Petit-Radel  and 
his  chronological  table  ;  and  that  was  why,  the 
other  day,  at  the  Luxembourg,  my  young  and 
irreverent  friend  .  .  . 

"  Rentre  en  toi-mcme,  Octave,  et  eesie  de  te  plaindre. 
Qwri  I  tu  veux  yu'on  fepargne  et  n'as  rien  fyarpUl "  * 

June  6. 

IT  was  the  first  Thursday  in  June.  I  shut  up  my 
books,  and  took  my  leave  of  the  holy  Abbot  Drocto- 
veus.  who,  being  now  in  the  enjoyment  of  celestial 
bliss,  cannot  feel  very  impatient  to  behold  his  name 
and  works  glorified  on  earth  through  the  humble 
compilation  being  prepared  by  my  hands.  Must  I 
confess  it  ?  That  mallow-plant  I  saw  visited  by  a 
bee  the  other  day  has  been  occupying  my  thoughts 
much  more  than  all  the  ancient  abbots  who  ever 
bore  crosiers  or  wore  mitres.  There  is  in  one  of 
Sprengel's  books  which  I  read  in  my  youth,  at  that 
time  when  I  used  to  read  anything  and  everything, 
lome  ideas  about  "  the  loves  of  flowers  "  which  now 

*  "  Look  into  thyself,  Octavius,  and  cease  complaining. 
What  1  thon  wonldst  be  spared,  and  thon  thyself  hart 
spared  none! " 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  189 

return  to  memory  after  having  been  forgotten  for 
half  a  century,  and  which  to-day  interest  me  so 
much  that  I  regret  not  to  have  devoted  the  humble 
capacities  of  my  mind  to  the  study  of  insects  and 
of  plants. 

And  only  awhile  ago  my  housekeeper  surprised 
me  at  the  kitchen  window,  in  the  act  of  examining 
some  wallflowers  through  a  magnifying-glass.  .  .  . 

It  was  while  looking  for  my  cravat  that  I  made 
these  reflections.  But  after  searching  to  no  purpose 
in  a  great  number  of  drawers,  I  found  myself 
obliged,  after  all,  to  have  recourse  to  my  house- 
keeper. Therese  came  limping  in. 

"  Monsieur,"  she  said,  "  you  ought  to  have  told 
one  you  were  going  out,  and  I  would  have  given  you 
your  cravat  !  " 

"  But  Therese,"  I  replied,  "  would  it  not  be  a 
great  deal  better  to  put  it  in  some  place  where  I 
could  find  it  without  your  help  ?  " 

Therese  did  not  deign  to  answer  me. 

Therese  no  longer  allows  me  to  arrange  anything. 
I  cannot  even  have  a  handkerchief  without  asking 
her  for  it ;  and  as  she  is  deaf,  crippled,  and,  what 
is  worse,  beginning  to  lose  her  memory,  I  languish 
in  perpetual  destitution.  But  she  exercises  her 
domestic  authority  with  such  quiet  pride  that  I  do 
not  feel  the  courage  to  attempt  a  coup  d'etct  against 
her  government. 


190  THE  CRIME  OF 

"  My  cravat !  Therese  ! — do  you  hear  ? — my 
cravat !  if  you  drive  me  wild  like  this  with  your 
slow  ways,  it  will  not  be  a  cravat  I  shall  need,  but 
a  rope  to  hang  myself  !  " 

"  You  must  be  in  a  very  great  hurry,  Monsieur," 
replied  Therese.  "  Your  cravat  is  not  lost. 
Nothing  is  ever  lost  in  this  house,  because  I  have 
charge  of  everything.  But  please  allow  me  the 
time  at  least  to  find  it." 

"  Yet  here,"  I  thought  to  myself — "  here  is  the 
result  of  half  a  century  of  devotedness  and  self- 
sacrifice  !  .  .  .  Ah  !  if  by  any  happy  chance  this 
inexorable  Therese  had  once  in  her  whole  life,  only 
once,  failed  in  her  duty  as  a  servant — if  she  had  ever 
been  at  fault  for  one  single  instant,  she  could  never 
have  assumed  this  inflexible  authority  over  me, 
and  I  should  at  least  have  the  courage  to  resist  her. 
But  how  can  one  resist  virtue  ?  The  people  who 
have  no  weaknesses  are  terrible  ;  there  is  no  way  of 
taking  advantage  of  them.  Just  look  at  Therese, 
for  example  ;  she  has  not  a  single  fault  for  which 
you  can  blame  her  !  She  has  no  doubt  of  herself, 
nor  of  God,  nor  of  the  world.  She  is  the  valiant 
woman,  the  wise  virgin  of  Scripture ;  others 
may  know  nothing  about  her,  but  I  know  her 
worth.  In  my  fancy  I  always  see  her  carrying 
a  lamp,  a  humble  kitchen  lamp,  illuminating 
the  beams  of  some  rustic  roof — a  lamp  which 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  191 

will  never  go  out  while  suspended  from  that 
meagre  arm  of  hers,  scraggy  and  strong  as  a  vine- 
branch. 

"  Therese,  my  cravat !  Don't  you  know, 
wretched  woman,  that  to-day  is  the  first  Thursday 
in  June,  and  that  Mademoiselle  Jeanne  will  be 
waiting  for  me  ?  The  schoolmistress  has  certainly 
had  the  parlour  floor  vigorously  waxed  :  I  am  sure 
one  can  look  at  oneself  in  it  now  ;  and  it  will  be 
quite  a  consolation  for  me  when  I  slip  and  break 
my  old  bones  upon  it — which  is  sure  to  happen 
sooner  or  later — to  see  my  rueful  countenance 
reflected  in  it  as  in  a  looking-glass.  Then  taking 
for  my  model  that  amiable  and  admirable  hero 
whose  image  is  carved  upon  the  handle  of  Uncle 
Victor's  walking-stick,  I  will  control  myself  so  as 
not  to  make  too  ugly  a  grimace.  .  .  .  See  what  a 
splendid  sun  !  The  quays  are  all  gilded  by  it,  and 
the  Seine  smiles  in  countless  little  flashing  wrinkles. 
The  city  is  gold  :  a  dust-haze,  blonde  and  gold- 
toned  as  a  woman's  hair,  floats  above  its  beautiful 
contours.  .  .  .  Therese,  my  cravat  !  .  .  .  Ah ! 
I  can  now  comprehend  the  wisdom  of  that  old 
Chrysal  who  used  to  keep  his  neckbands  in  a  big 
Plutarch.  Hereafter  I  shall  follow  his  example 
by  laying  all  my  neckties  away  between  the  leaves 
of  the  *  Acta  Sanctorum.'  " 

Therese  lets  me  talk  on,  and  keeps  looking  for 


192  THE  CRIME  OF 

the  necktie  in  silence.  I  hear  a  gentle  ringing  at 
our  door-bell. 

"  Therese,"  I  exclaim ;  "  there  is  somebody 
ringing  the  bell !  Give  me  my  cravat,  and  go  to 
the  door  ;  or,  rather,  go  to  the  door  first,  and  then, 
with  the  help  of  Heaven,  you  will  give  me  my  cravat. 
But  please  do  not  stand  there  between  the  clothes- 
press  and  the  door  like  an  old  hack-horse  between 
two  saddles." 

Therese  marched  to  the  door  as  if  advancing  upon 
an  enemy.  My  excellent  housekeeper  becomes 
more  inhospitable  the  older  she  grows.  Every 
stranger  is  an  object  of  suspicion  to  her.  According 
to  her  own  assertion,  this  disposition  is  the  result 
of  a  long  experience  with  human  nature.  I  had 
not  the  time  to  consider  whether  the  same  experience 
on  the  part  of  another  experimenter  would  produce 
the  same  results.  Maitre  Mouche  was  waiting  to 
see  me  in  the  ante-room. 

Maitre  Mouche  is  still  more  yellow  than  I  had 
believed  him  to  be.  He  wears  blue  glasses,  and  his 
eyes  keep  moving  uneasily  behind  them,  like  mice 
running  about  behind  a  screen. 

Maitre  Mouche  excuses  himself  for  having  in- 
truded upon  me  at  a  moment  when  .  .  .  He  does 
not  characterise  the  moment ;  but  I  think  he  means 
to  say  a  moment  in  which  I  happen  to  be  without 
mv  cravat.  It  is  not  my  fault,  as  you  very  wel] 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  193 

know.  Maitre  Mouche,  who  does  not  know,  does 
not  appear  to  be  at  all  shocked,  however.  He  is 
only  afraid  that  he  might  have  dropped  in  at  the 
wrong  moment.  I  succeed  in  partially  reassuring 
him  at  once  upon  that  point.  He  then  tells  me  it  is 
as  the  guardian  of  Mademoiselle  Alexandre  that  he 
has  come  to  talk  with  me.  First  of  all,  he  desires 
that  I  shall  not  hereafter  pay  any  heed  to  those 
restrictions  he  had  at  first  deemed  it  necessary  to 
put  upon  the  permit  given  to  visit  Mademoiselle 
Jeanne  at  the  boarding-school.  Henceforth  the 
establishment  of  Mademoiselle  Prefere  will  be  open 
to  me  any  day  that  I  may  choose  to  call — between 
the  hours  of  midday  and  four  o'clock.  Knowing 
the  interest  I  have  taken  in  the  young  girl,  he  con- 
siders it  his  duty  to  give  me  some  information  about 
the  person  to  whom  he  has  confided  his  ward. 
Mademoiselle  Prefere,  whom  he  has  known  for  many 
years,  is  in  possession  of  his  utmost  confidence. 
Mademoiselle  Prefere  is,  in  his  estimation,  an  en- 
lightened person,  of  excellent  morals,  and  capable 
of  giving  excellent  counsel. 

"  Mademoiselle  Prefere,"  he  said  to  me,  "  has 
principles ;  and  principles  are  rare  in  these  days, 
Monsieur.  Everything  has  been  totally  changed  ; 
and  this  epoch  of  ours  cannot  compare  with  the 
preceding  ones." 

"  My  stairway   is   a  good  example,   Monsieur." 


194  THE  CRIME  OF 

I  replied  ;  "  twenty-five  years  ago  it  used  to  allow 
me  to  climb  it  without  any  trouble,  and  now  it 
takes  my  breath  away,  and  wears  my  legs  out  before 
1  have  climbed  half  a  dozen  steps.  It  has  had  its 
character  spoiled.  Then  there  are  those  journals 
and  books  I  used  once  to  devour  without  difficulty 
by  moonlight  :  to-day,  even  in  the  brightest  sun- 
light, they  mock  my  curiosity,  and  exhibit  nothing 
but  a  blur  of  white  and  black  when  I  have  not  got 
my  spectacles  on.  Then  the  gout  has  got  into  my 
limbs.  That  is  another  malicious  trick  of  the 
times !  " 

"  Not  only  that,  Monsieur,"  gravely  replied 
Maitre  Mouche,  "  but  what  is  really  unfortunate  in 
our  epoch  is  that  no  one  is  satisfied  with  his  position. 
From  the  top  of  society  to  the  bottom,  in  every 
class,  there  prevails  a  discontent,  a  restlessness,  a 
love  of  comfort.  .  .  ." 

"  Mon  Dieu,  Monsieur  !  "  I  exclaimed.  "  You 
think  this  love  of  comfort  is  a  sign  of  the  times  ? 
Men  have  never  had  at  any  epoch  a  love  of  dis- 
comfort. They  have  always  tried  to  better  their 
condition.  This  constant  effort  produces  constant 
changes,  and  the  effort  is  always  going  on — that 
is  all  there  is  about  it !  " 

"  Ah  !  Monsieur,"  replied  Maitre  Mouche,  "  it 
is  easy  to  see  that  you  live  in  your  books — out  of 
the  business  world  altogether.  You  do  not  see,  as  I 


SYLVLSTRE  BONNARD  195 

see  them,  the  conflicts  of  interest,  the  struggle  for 
money.  It  is  the  same  effervescence  in  all  minds, 
great  or  small.  The  wildest  speculations  are  being 
everywhere  indulged  in.  What  I  see  around  me 
simply  terrifies  me  !  " 

I  wondered  within  myself  whether  Maitre  Mouche 
had  called  upon  me  only  for  the  purpose  of  express- 
ing his  virtuous  misanthropy  ;  but  all  at  once  J 
heard  words  of  a  more  consoling  character  issue  from 
his  lips.  Maitre  Mouche  began  to  speak  to  me  ol 
Virginie  Prefere  as  a  person  worthy  of  respect,  of 
esteem,  and  of  sympathy, — highly  honourable, 
capable  of  great  devotedness,  cultivated,  discreet, 
— able  to  read  aloud  remarkably  well,  extremely 
modest,  and  skilful  in  the  art  of  applying  blisters. 
Then  I  began  tc  understand  that  he  had  only  been 
painting  that  dismal  picture  of  universal  corruption 
in  order  the  better  to  bring  out,  by  contrast,  the 
virtues  of  the  schoolmistress.  I  was  further  in- 
formed that  the  institution  in  the  Rue  Demours 
was  well  patronised,  prosperous,  and  enjoyed  a 
high  reputation  with  the  public.  Maitre  Mouche 
lifted  up  his  hand — with  a  black  woollen  glove  on  it 
— as  if  making  oath  to  the  truth  of  these  statements. 
Then  he  added  : 

"  I  am  enabled,  by  the  very  character  of  my 
profession,  to  know  a  great  deal  about  people.  A 
notary  is,  to  a  certain  extent,  a  father-confessor. 


196  THE  CRIME  OF 

I  deemed  it  my  duty,  Monsieur,  to  give  you  this 
agreeable  information  at  the  moment  when  aJucky 
chance  enabled  you  to  meet  Mademoiselle  Prefere. 
There  is  only  one  thing  more  which  1  would  like 
to  say.  This  lady — who  is,  of  course,  quite  unaware 
of  my  action  in  the  matter — spoke  to  me  of  you  the 
other  day  in  terms  of  the  deepest  sympathy.  1 
could  only  weaken  their  expression  by  repeating 
them  to  you  ;  and,  furthermore,  I  could  not  repeat 
them  without  betraying,  to  a  certain  extent,  the 
confidence  of  Mademoiselle  Prefere." 

"  Do  not  betray  it,  Monsieur  ;  do  not  betray 
it ! "  I  responded.  "  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  had 
no  idea  that  Mademoiselle  Prefere  knew  anything 
whatever  about  me.  But  since  you  have  the  in- 
fluence of  an  old  friend  with  her,  I  will  take  advan- 
tage of  your  good  will,  Monsieur,  to  ask  you  to 
exercise  that  influence  in  behalf  of  Mademoiselle 
Jeanne  Alexandre.  The  child — tor  she  is  still  a 
child — is  overloaded  with  work.  She  is  at  once  a 
pupil  and  a  mistress — she  is  overtasked.  Besides, 
she  is  punished  in  petty  disgusting  ways  ;  and  hers 
is  one  of  those  generous  natures  which  will  be 
forced  into  revolt  by  such  continual  humiliation." 

"  Alas  !  "  replied  Mattre  Mouche,  "  she  must  be 
trained  to  take  her  part  in  the  struggle  of  life.  One 
does  not  come  into  this  world  simply  to  amuie 
oneself,  and  to  do  just  what  one  pleases." 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  197 

'*  One  comes  into  this  world,"  I  responded, 
rather  warmly,  "  to  enjoy  what  is  beautiful  and  what 
is  good,  and  to  do  as  one  pleases,  when  the  things 
one  wants  to  do  are  noble,  intelligent,  and  generous 
An  education  which  does  not  cultivate  the  will, 
is  an  education  that  depraves  the  mind.  It  is  a 
teacher's  duty  to  teach  the  pupil  how  to  will." 

I  perceived  that  Maitre  Mouche  began  to  think 
me  a  rather  silly  man.  With  a  great  deal  of  quiet 
self-assurance,  he  proceeded  : 

"  You  must  remember,  Monsieur,  that  the  educa- 
tion of  the  poor  has  to  be  conducted  with  a  great 
deal  of  circumspection,  and  with  a  view  to  that 
future  state  of  dependence  they  must  occupy  in 
society.  Perhaps  you  are  not  aware  that  the  late 
Noel  Alexandre  died  a  bankrupt,  and  that  his 
daughter  is  being  educated  almost  by  charity  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  Monsieur  !  "  I  exclaimed,  "  do  not  say  it ! 
To  say  it  is  to  pay  oneself  back,  and  then  the 
statement  ceases  to  be  true." 

"  The  liabilities  of  the  estate,"  continued  the 
notary,  "  exceeded  the  assets.  But  I  was  able  to 
effect  a  settlement  with  the  creditors  in  favour  of 
the  minor." 

He  undertook  to  explain  matters  in  detail.  I 
declined  to  listen  to  these  explanations,  being 
incapable  of  understanding  business  methods  in 
general,  and  those  of  Maitre  Mouche  in  particular. 

o 


198  THE  CRIME  OF 

The  notary  then  took  it  upon  himself  to  justify 
Mademoiselle  Prefere's  educational  system,  and 
observed  by  way  of  conclusion, 

"  It  is  not  by  amusing  oneself  that  one  can 
learn." 

"  It  is  only  by  amusing  oneself  that  one  can 
learn,"  I  replied.  "  The  whole  art  of  teaching 
is  only  the  art  of  awakening  the  natural  curiosity 
of  young  minds  for  the  purpose  of  satisfying  it 
afterwards ;  and  curiosity  itself  can  be  vivid  and 
wholesome  only  in  proportion  as  the  mind  is  con- 
tented and  happy.  Those  acquirements  crammed 
by  force  into  the  minds  of  children  simply  clog 
and  stifle  intelligence.  In  order  that  knowledge 
be  properly  digested,  it  must  have  been  swallowed 
with  a  good  appetite.  I  know  Jeanne  !  If  that 
child  were  intrusted  to  my  care,  I  should  make 
of  her — not  a  learned  woman,  for  I  would  look  to 
her  future  happiness  only — but  a  child  full  of  bright 
intelligence  and  full  of  life,  in  whom  everything 
beautiful  in  art  or  nature  would  awaken  some  gentle 
responsive  thrill.  I  would  teach  her  to  live  in 
sympathy  with  all  that  is  beautiful — comely  land- 
scapes, the  ideal  scenes  of  poetry  and  history,  the 
emotional  charm  of  noble  music.  I  would  make 
lovable  to  ner  everything  I  would  wish  her  to  love. 
Even  her  needlework  I  would  make  pleasurable 
to  her,  by  a  proper  choice  of  the  fabrics,  the  style 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  199 

of  embroideries,  the  designs  of  lace.  I  would  give 
her  a  beautiful  dog,  and  a  pony  to  teach  her  how 
to  manage  animals ;  I  would  give  her  birds  to  take 
care  of,  so  that  she  could  learn  the  value  of  even  a 
drop  of  water  and  a  crumb  of  bread.  And  in  order 
that  she  should  have  a  still  higher  pleasure,  I  would 
train  her  to  find  delight  in  exercising  charity.  And 
inasmuch  as  none  of  us  may  escape  pain,  I  should 
teach  her  that  Christian  wisdom  which  elevates  us 
above  all  suffering,  and  gives  a  beauty  even  to  grief 
itself.  That  is  my  idea  of  the  right  way  to  educate 
a  young  girl." 

"  I  yield,  Monsieur,"  replied  Maitre  Mouche, 
joining  his  black-gloved  hands  together. 

And  he  rose. 

"  Of  course  you  understand,"  I  remarked,  as  I 
went  to  the  door  with  him,  "  that  I  do  not  pretend 
for  a  moment  to  impose  my  educational  system 
upon  Mademoiselle  Prefere  ;  it  is  necessarily  a 
private  one,  and  quite  incompatible  with  the  organi- 
sation of  even  the  best-managed  boarding  schools. 
I  only  ask  you  to  persuade  her  to  give  Jeanne  less 
work  and  more  play,  and  not  to  punish  her  except 
in  case  of  absolute  necessity,  and  to  let  her  have  as 
much  freedom  of  mind  and  body  as  the  regulations 
of  the  institution  permit." 

It  was  with  a  pale  and  mysterious  smile  that 
Maitre  Mouche  informed  me  that  my  observations 


200  THE  CRIME  OF 

would  be  taken  in  good  part,  and  should  receive 
all  possible  consideration. 

Therewith  he  made  me  a  little  bow,  and  took  his 
departure,  leaving  me  with  a  peculiar  feeling  of 
discomfort  and  uneasiness.  I  have  met  a  great 
many  strange  characters  in  my  time,  but  never  any 
at  all  resembling  either  this  notary  or  this  school- 
mistress. 

July  6. 

MAITRB  MOUCHE  had  so  much  delayed  me  by  his 
visit  that  I  gave  up  going  to  see  Jeanne  that  day. 
Professional  duties  kept  me  very  busy  for  the  rest 
of  the  week.  Although  at  the  age  when  most 
men  retire  altogether  from  active  life,  I  am  still 
attached  by  a  thousand  ties  to  the  society  in  which 
I  have  lived.  I  have  to  preside  at  meetings  of 
academies,  scientific  congresses,  assemblies  of  various 
learned  bodies.  I  am  overburdened  with  honorary 
functions  ;  I  have  seven  of  these  in  one  government 
department  alone.  The  bureaux  would  be  very 
glad  to  get  rid  of  me,  and  I  should  be  very  glad  to 
get  rid  of  them.  But  habit  is  stronger  than  both 
of  us  together,  and  I  continue  to  hobble  up  the 
stairs  of  various  government  buildings.  Old  clerks 
point  me  out  to  each  other  as  I  go  by  like  a  ghost 
wandering  through  the  corridors.  When  one  has 
become  very  old  one  finds  it  extremelv  difficult  t~ 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  201 

disappear.  Nevertheless,  it  is  time,  as  the  old 
song  says,  "  de  frendre  ma  retraite  et  de  songer  a 
faire  un  fin  " — to  retire  on  my  pension  and  prepare 
myself  to  die  a  good  death. 

An  old  marchioness,  who  used  to  be  a  friend  of 
Helvetius  in  her  youth,  and  whom  I  once  met  at 
my  father's  house  when  a  very  old  woman,  was 
visited  during  her  last  sickness  by  the  priest  of  her 
parish,  who  wanted  to  prepare  her  to  die. 

"  Is  that  really  necessary  ?  "  she  asked.  "  I  see 
everybody  else  manage  it  perfectly  well  the  first 
time." 

My  father  went  to  see  her  very  soon  afterwards 
and  found  her  extremely  ill. 

"  Good-evening,  my  friend  !  "  she  said,  pressing 
his  hand.  "  I  am  going  to  see  whether  God  im- 
proves upon  acquaintance." 

So  were  wont  to  die  the  belles  amies  of  the  philo- 
sophers. Such  an  end  is  certainly  not  vulgar  nor 
impertinent,  and  such  levities  are  not  of  the  sort 
that  emanate  from  dull  minds.  Nevertheless,  they 
shock  me.  Neither  my  fears  nor  my  hopes  could 
accommodate  themselves  to  such  a  mode  of  depar- 
ture. I  would  like  to  make  mine  with  a  perfectly 
collected  mind  ;  and  that  is  why  I  must  begin  to 
think,  in  a  year  or  two,  about  some  way  of  belonging 
to  myself ;  otherwise,  I  should  certainly  risk  .  .  . 
But,  hush  !  let  Him  not  hear  His  name  and  turn  to 


202  THE  CRIME  OF 

look  as  He  passes  by  !  I  can  still  lift  my  fagot 
without  His  aid. 

...  I  found  Jeanne  very  happy  indeed.  She 
told  me  that,  on  the  Thursday  previors,  after  the 
visit  of  her  guardian,  Mademoiselle  Preiere  had  set 
her  free  from  the  ordinary  regulations  and  lightened 
her  tasks  in  several  ways.  Since  that  lucky  Thursday 
she  could  walk  in  the  garden — which  only  lacked 
leaves  and  flowers — as  much  as  she  liked  ;  and 
she  had  even  been  given  facilities  to  work  at  her 
unfortunate  little  figure  of  Saint-George. 

She  said  to  me,  with  a  smile, 

"  I  know  very  well  that  I  owe  all  this  to 
you." 

1  tried  to  talk  with  her  about  other  matters, 
but  I  remarked  that  she  could  not  attend  to  what 
1  was  saying,  in  spite  of  her  effort  to  do  so. 

"  I  see  you  are  thinking  about  something  else,"  I 
said.  "  Well,  tell  me  what  it  is  ;  for,  if  you  do  not, 
we  shall  not  be  able  to  talk  to  each  other  at  all, 
which  would  be  very  unworthy  of  both  of  us." 

She  answered, 

"  Oh  !  I  was  really  listening  to  you,  Monsieur ; 
but  it  is  true  that  I  was  thinking  about  something 
else.  You  will  excuse  me,  won't  you  ?  I  could  not 
help  thinking  that  Mademoiselle  Prefere  must  like 
you  very,  very  much  indeed,  to  have  become  so 
good  to  me  all  of  a  sudden." 


SYLVESTRE  BONNAKD          203 

Then  she  looked  at  me  in  an  odd,  smiling, 
frightened  way,  which  made  me  laugh. 

"  Does  that  surprise  you  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Very  much,"  she  replied. 

"  Please  tell  me  why  ?  " 

"  Because  I  can  see  no  reason,  no  reason  at  all 
.  .  .  but  there  !  ...  no  reason  at  all  why  you 
should  please  Mademoiselle  Prefere  so  much." 

"  So,  then,  you  think  I  am  very  displeasing, 
Jeanne  ?  " 

She  bit  her  lips,  as  if  to  punish  them  for  having 
made  a  mistake  ;  and  then,  in  a  coaxing  way,  looking 
at  me  with  her  great  soft  eyes,  gentle  and  beautiful 
as  a  spaniel's,  she  said, 

"  I  know  I  said  a  foolish  thing  ;  but,  still,  I  do 
not  see  any  reason  why  you  should  be  so  pleasing 
to  Mademoiselle  Prefere.  And,  nevertheless,  you 
seem  to  please  her  a  great  deal — a  very  great  deal. 
She  called  me  one  day,  and  asked  me  all  sorts  of 
questions  about  you." 

"  Really  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  she  wanted  to  find  out  all  about  your 
house,  lust  think  !  she  even  asked  me  how  old 
youi  servant  was  !  *' 

And  leanne  burst  out  laughing. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  about  it  ?  "  I  asked. 

She  remained  a  long  while  with  her  eyes  fixed  on 
the  worn-oul  cloth  of  her  shoes,  and  seemed  to  be 


204  THE  CRIME  OF 

thinking  very  deeply.  Finally,  looking  up  again, 
she  answered, 

"  I  am  distrustful.  Isn't  it  very  natural  to  feel 
uneasy  about  what  one  cannot  understand  ?  I 
know  I  am  foolish ;  but  you  won't  be  offended 
with  me,  will  you  ?  " 

"  Why,  certainly  not,  Jeanne.  I  am  not  a  bit 
offended  with  you." 

I  must  acknowledge  that  I  was  beginning  to  share 
her  surprise  ;  and  I  began  to  turn  over  in  my  old 
head  the  singular  thought  of  this  young  girl — "  One 
is  uneasy  about  what  one  cannot  understand." 

But,  with  a  fresh  burst  of  merriment,  she  cried 
out, 

"  She  asked  me  .  .  .  guess  !  I  will  give  you  a 
hundred  guesses — a  thousand  guesses.  You  give 
it  up  ? .  .  .  She  asked  me  if  you  liked  good  eating." 

"  And  how  did  you  receive  this  shower  of  interro- 
gations, Jeanne  ?  " 

"  I  replied,  *  I  don't  know,  Mademoiselle.'  And 
Mademoiselle  then  said  to  me,  '  You  are  a  little  fool. 
The  least  details  of  the  life  of  an  eminent  man 
ought  to  be  observed.  Please  to  know,  Made- 
moiselle, that  Monsieur  Sylvestre  Bonnard  is  one 
of  the  glories  of  France  ! ' 

"  Stuff  I  "  I  exclaimed.  "  And  what  did  you 
think  about  it,  Mademoiselle  ?  " 

"  I  thought  that  Mademoiselle  Prefere  was  right. 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  205 

But  I  don't  care  at  all  ...  (I  know  it  is  naughty 
what  I  am  going  to  say)  ...  I  don't  care  a  bit,  not 
a  bit,  whether  Mademoiselle  Prefere  is  or  is  not 
right  about  anything." 

"  Well,  then,  content  yourself,  Jeanne,  Made- 
moiselle Prefere  was  not  right." 

"  Yes,  yes,  she  was  quite  right  that  time  ;  but 
I  wanted  to  love  everybody  who  loved  you — 
everybody  without  exception — and  I  cannot  do  it, 
because  it  would  never  be  possible  for  me  to  love 
Mademoiselle  Prefere." 

"  Listen,  Jeanne,"  I  answered,  very  seriously, 
"  Mademoiselle  Prefere  has  become  good  to  you ; 
try  now  to  be  good  to  her." 

She  answered  sharply, 

"  It  is  very  easy  for  Mademoiselle  Prefere  to  be 
good  to  me,  and  it  would  be  very  difficult  indeed 
for  me  to  be  good  to  her." 

I  then  said,  in  a  still  more  serious  tone  : 

"  My  child,  the  authority  of  a  teacher  is  sacred. 
You  must  consider  your  schoolmistress  as  occupying 
the  place  to  you  of  the  mother  whom  you  lost." 

I  had  scarcely  uttered  this  solemn  stupidity  when 
I  bitterly  regretted  it.  The  child  turned  pale,  and 
the  tears  sprang  to  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,  Monsieur !  "  she  cried,  "  how  could  you 
say  such  a  thing — you  ?  You  never  knew  mamma  !  " 

Ay,    just   Heaven !      I   did   know   her   mamma. 


206  THE  CRIME  OF 

And  how  indeed  could  I  have  been  foolish  enough 
to  have  said  what  I  did  ? 

She  repeated,  as  if  to  herself  : 

"  Mamma !  my  dear  mamma  !  my  poor 
mamma  !  " 

A  lucky  chance  prevented  me  from  playing  the 
fool  any  further.  I  do  not  know  how  it  happened 
that  at  that  moment  I  looked  as  if  I  was  going  to 
cry.  At  my  age  one  does  not  cry.  It  must  have 
been  a  bad  cough  which  brought  the  tears  into  my 
eyes.  But,  anyhow,  appearances  were  in  my  favour. 
Jeanne  was  deceived  by  them.  Oh !  what  a 
pure  and  radiant  smile  suddenly  shone  out  under 
her  beautiful  wet  eyelashes — like  sunshine  among 
branches  after  a  summer  shower  !  We  took  each 
other  by  the  hand  and  sat  a  long  while  without 
saying  a  word — absolutely  happy.  Those  celestial 
harmonies  which  I  once  thought  I  heard  thrilling 
through  my  soul  while  I  knelt  before  that  tomb  to 
which  a  saintly  woman  had  guided  me,  suddenly 
awoke  again  in  my  heart,  slow-swelling  through 
the  blissful  moments  with  infinite  softness.  Doubt- 
less the  child  whose  hand  pressed  my  own  also 
heard  them  ;  and  then,  elevated  by  their  enchant- 
ment above  the  material  world,  the  poor  old  man 
and  the  artless  young  girl  both  knew  that  a  tender 
ghostly  Presence  was  making  sweetness  all  about 
them. 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  207 

"  My  child,"  I  said  at  last,  "  I  am  very  old,  and 
many  secrets  of  life,  which  you  will  only  learn  little 
by  little,  have  been  revealed  to  me.  Believe  me, 
the  future  is  shaped  out  of  the  past.  Whatever 
you  can  do  to  live  contentedly  here,  without  im- 
patience and  without  fretting,  will  help  you  to  live 
some  future  day  in  peace  and  joy  in  your  own  home. 
Be  gentle,  and  learn  how  to  suffer.  When  one 
suffers  patiently  one  suffers  less.  If  you  should  ever 
happen  to  have  a  serious  cause  of  complaint  I  shall 
be  there  to  take  your  part.  If  you  should  be  badly 
treated,  Madame  de  Gabry  and  I  would  both  con- 
sider ourselves  badly  treated  in  your  person."  .  .  . 

"  Is  your  health  very  good  indeed,  dear  Mon- 
sieur ?  " 

It  was  Mademoiselle  Prefere,  approaching 
stealthily  behind  us,  who  had  asked  the  question 
with  her  peculiar  smile.  My  first  idea  was  to  tell 
her  to  go  to  the  devil ;  my  second,  that  her  mouth 
wtis  as  little  suited  for  smiling  as  a  frying-pan  for 
musical  purposes ;  my  third  was  to  answer  her 
politely  and  assure  her  that  I  hoped  she  was  very  well. 

She  sent  the  young  girl  out  to  take  a  walk  in  the 
garden  ;  then,  pressing  one  hand  upon  her  pelerine 
and  extending  the  other  towards  the  'Tableau 
d'Honneur,  she  showed  me  the  name  of  Jeanne 
Alexandre  written  at  the  head  of  the  list  in  large 
text. 


2o8  THE  CRIME  OF 

"  I  am  very  much  pleased,"  I  said  to  her,  "  to 
find  that  you  are  satisfied  with  the  behaviour  of 
that  child.  Nothing  could  delight  me  more ; 
and  I  am  inclined  to  attribute  this  happy  result 
to  your  affectionate  vigilance.  I  have  taken  the 
liberty  to  send  you  a  few  books  which  I  think  may 
serve  both  to  instruct  and  to  amuse  young  girls. 
You  will  be  able  to  judge  by  glancing  over  them 
whether  they  are  adapted  to  the  perusal  of  Made- 
moiselle Alexandre  and  her  companions." 

The  gratitude  of  the  schoolmistress  not  only 
overflowed  in  words,  but  seemed  about  to  take  the 
form  of  tearful  sensibility.  In  order  to  change  the 
subject  I  observed, 

"  What  a  beautiful  day  this  is !  " 

"  Yes,"  she  replied  ;  "  and  if  this  weather  con- 
tinues, those  dear  children  will  have  a  nice  time  for 
their  enjoyment." 

"  I  suppose  you  are  referring  to  the  holidays. 
But  Mademoiselle  Alexandre,  who  has  no  relatives, 
cannot  go  away.  What  in  the  world  is  she  going 
to  do  all  alone  in  this  great  big  house  ?  " 

"  Oh,  we  will  do  everything  we  can  to  amuse 
her.  ...  I  will  take  her  to  the  museums  and " 

She  hesitated,  blushed,  and  continued, 

" — and  to  your  house,  if  you  will  permit  me." 

"  Why  of  course  !  "  I  exclaimed.  "  That  is  a 
first-rate  idea." 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  209 

We  separated  very  good  friends  with  one  another. 
1  with  her,  because  I  had  been  able  to  obtain  what 
I  desired  ;  she  with  me,  for  no  appreciable  motive 
— which  fact,  according  to  Plato,  elevated  her  into 
the  highest  rank  of  the  Hierarchy  of  Souls. 

.  .  .  And  nevertheless  it  is  not  without  a  presenti- 
ment of  evil  that  1  find  myself  on  the  point  ot  intro- 
ducing this  person  into  my  house.  And  I  would 
be  very  glad  indeed  to  see  Jeanne  in  charge  of  any- 
body else  rather  than  of  her.  Maitre  Mouche  and 
Mademoiselle  Prefere  are  characters  whom  I  cannot 
at  all  understand.  I  never  can  imagine  why  they 
say  what  they  do  say,  nor  why  they  do  what  they 
do  ;  they  have  a  mysterious  something  in  common 
•vhich  makes  me  feel  uneasy.  As  Jeanne  said  to  me 
a  little  while  ago  :  "  One  is  uneasy  about  what 
one  cannot  understand." 

Alas  !  at  my  age  one  has  learned  only  too  well  how 

"little  sincerity  there  is  in  lite  ;   one  has  learned  only 

too  well  how  much  one  loses  by  living  a  long  time  in 

this  world  ;    and  one  feels  that  one  can  no  longer 

trust  any  except  the  young. 

August  12. 

I  WAITED  for  them.  In  fact,  I  waited  for  them 
very  impatiently.  I  exerted  all  my  powers  of 
insinuation  and  of  coaxing  to  induce  Therese  to 
receive  them  kindly ;  but  my  powers  in  this 


210  THE  CRIME  OF 

direction  are  very  limited.  They  came.  Jeanne 
was  neater  and  prettier  than  I  had  ever  expected  to 
see  her.  She  has  not,  it  is  true,  anything  approach- 
ing the  charm  of  her  mother.  But  to-day,  for  the 
first  time,  I  observed  that  she  has  a  pleasing  face  ; 
and  a  pleasing  face  is  of  great  advantage  to  a  woman 
in  this  world.  I  think  that  her  hat  was  a  little  on 
one  side  ;  but  she  smiled,  and  the  City  of  Books 
was  all  illuminated  by  that  smile. 

I  watched  Therese  to  see  whether  the  rigid 
manners  of  the  old  housekeeper  would  soften  a 
little  at  the  sight  of  the  young  girl.  1  saw  her 
turning  her  lustreless  eyes  upon  Jeanne  ;  I  saw  her 
long  wrinkled  face,  her  toothless  mouth,  and  that 
pointed  chin  of  hers — like  the  chin  of  some  pu'ssant 
old  fairy.  And  that  was  all  I  could  see. 

Mademoiselle  Pref ere  made  her  appearance  all  in 
blue — advanced,  retreated,  skipped,  tripped,  cried 
out,  sighed,  cast  her  eyes  down,  rolled  her  eyes  up,' 
bewildered  herself  with  excuses — said  she  dared  not, 
and  nevertheless  dared — said  she  would  never  dare 
again,  and  nevertheless  dared  again — made  courtesies 
innumerable — made,  in  short,  all  the  fuss  she  could. 

"  What  a  lot  of  books !  "  she  screamed.  "  And 
have  you  really  read  them  all,  Monsieur  Bonnard  ?  " 

"  Alas !  I  have,"  I  replied,  "  and  that  is  just 
the  reason  that  I  do  not  know  anything  ;  for  there 
it  not  a  single  one  of  those  books  which  does  not 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  211 

contradict  some  other  book ;  so  that  by  the  time 
one  has  read  them  all  one  does  not  know  what  to 
think  about  anything.  That  is  just  my  condition, 
Madame." 

Thereupon  she  called  Jeanne  for  the  purpose  of 
communicating  her  impressions.  But  Jeanne  was 
looking  out  of  the  window. 

"  How  beautiful  it  is !  "  she  said  to  us.  "  How  I 
love  to  see  the  river  flowing  !  It  makes  you  think 
about  all  kinds  of  things." 

Mademoiselle  Prefere  having  removed  her  hat  and 
exhibited  a  forehead  tricked  out  with  blonde  curls, 
my  housekeeper  sturdily  snatched  up  the  hat  at  once, 
with  the  observation  that  she  did  not  like  to  sec 
people's  clothes  scattered  over  the  furniture.  Then 
she  approached  Jeanne  and  asked  her  for  her 
"  things,"  calling  her  "  my  little  lady  !  "  Where- 
upon the  little  lady,  giving  up  her  cloak  and  hat, 
exposed  to  view  a  very  graceful  neck  and  a  lithe 
figure,  whose  outlines  were  beautifully  relieved 
against  the  great  glow  of  the  open  window ;  and  I 
could  have  wished  that  some  one  else  might  have 
seen  her  at  that  moment — some  one  very  different 
from  an  aged  housekeeper,  a  schoolmistress  frizzled 
like  a  sheep,  and  this  old  humbug  of  an  archivist 
and  paleographer. 

"  So  you  are  looking  at  the  Seine,"  I  said  to  her. 
"  See  how  it  sparkles  in  the  sun  J  " 


ill  THE  CRIME  OF 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  leaning  over  the  window- 
bar,  "  it  looks  like  a  flowing  of  fire.  But  see  how 
nice  and  cool  it  looks  on  the  other  side  over  there, 
under  the  shadow  of  the  willows !  That  little  spot 
there  pleases  me  better  than  all  the  rest." 

"  Good  !  "  I  answered.  "I  see  that  the  river 
has  a  charm  for  you.  How  would  you  like,  with 
Mademoisele  Prefere's  permission,  to  make  a  trip 
to  Saint-Cloud  ?  We  should  certainly  be  in  time 
to  catch  the  steamboat  just  below  the  Pont-Royal." 

Jeanne  was  delighted  with  my  suggestion,  and 
Mademoiselle  Prefere  willing  to  make  any  sacrifice. 
But  my  housekeeper  was  not  at  all  willing  to  let  us 
go  off  so  unconcernedly.  She  summoned  me  into 
the  dining-room,  whither  I  followed  her  in  fear  and 
trembling. 

"  Monsieur,"  she  said  to  me  as  soon  as  we  found 
ourselves  alone,  "  you  never  think  about  anything, 
and  it  is  always  I  who  have  to  think  about  every- 
thing. Luckily  for  you  I  have  a  good  memory." 

I  did  not  think  that  it  was  a  favourable  moment 
for  any  attempt  to  dispel  this  wild  illusion.  She 
continued  : 

"  So  you  were  going  off  without  saying  a  word  to 
me  about  what  this  little  lady  likes  to  eat  ?  At  her 
age  one  does  not  know  anything,  one  does  not  care 
about  anything  in  particular,  one  eats  like  a  bird. 
You  yourself,  Monsieur,  are  very  difficult  to  please  ; 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  213 

but  at  least  you  know  what  is  good  :  it  is  very 
different  with  these  young  people — they  do  not 
know  anything  about  cooking.  It  is  often  the  very 
best  thing  which  they  think  the  worst,  and  what  is 
bad  seems  to  them  good,  because  their  stomachs 
are  not  quite  formed  yet — so  that  one  never  knows 
just  what  to  do  for  them.  Tell  me  if  the  little  lady 
would  like  a  pigeon  cooked  with  green  peas,  and 
whether  she  is  fond  of  vanilla  ice-cream." 

"  My  good  Therese,"  I  answered,  "  just  do  what- 
ever you  think  best,  and  whatever  that  may  be  I  am 
sure  it  will  be  very  nice.  Those  ladies  will  be  quite 
contented  with  our  humble  ordinary  fare." 

Therese  replied,  very  dryly. 

"  Monsieur,  I  am  asking  you  about  the  little 
lady  :  she  must  not  leave  this  house  without  having 
enjoyed  herself  a  little.  As  for  that  old  frizzle- 
headed  thing,  if  she  doesn't  like  my  dinner  she 
can  suck  her  thumbs.  I  don't  care  what  she 
likes  !  " 

My  mind  being  thus  set  at  rest,  I  returned  into 
the  City  of  Books,  where  Mademoiselle  Prefere  was 
crocheting  as  calmly  as  if  she  were  at  home.  I 
almost  felt  inclined  myself  to  think  she  was.  She 
did  not  take  up  much  room,  it  is  true,  in  the  angle 
of  the  window.  But  she  had  chosen  her  chair  and 
her  footstool  so  well  that  those  articles  of  furniture 
seemed  to  have  been  made  expressly  for  her. 

V 


214  THE  CRIME  OF 

Jeanne,  on  the  other  hand,  devoted  her  attention 
to  the  books  and  pictures — gazing  at  them  in  a 
kindly,  expressive,  half-sad  way,  as  if  she  were 
bidding  them  an  affectionate  farewell. 

"  Here,"  1  said  to  her,  "  amuse  yourself  with  this 
book,  which  I  am  sure  you  cannot  help  liking, 
because  it  is  full  of  beautiful  engravings."  And 
I  threw  open  before  her  Vecellio's  collection  of 
costume-designs — not  the  commonplace  edition, 
by  your  leave,  so  meagrely  reproduced  by  modern 
artists,  but  in  truth  a  magnificent  and  venerable 
copy  of  that  editio  princeps  which  is  noble  as  those 
noble  dames  who  figure  upon  its  yellowed  leaves, 
made  beautiful  by  time. 

While  turning  over  the  engravings  with  artless 
curiosity,  Jeanne  said  to  me, 

"  We  were  talking  about  taking  a  walk  ;  but  this 
is  a  great  journey  you  are  making  me  take.  And  I 
would  like  to  travel  very,  very  far  away  ! " 

"  In  that  case,  Mademoiselle,"  I  said  to  her, 
"  you  must  arrange  yourself  as  comfortably  as  possible 
for  travelling.  But  you  are  now  sitting  on  one 
corner  of  your  chair,  so  that  the  chair  is  standing 
upon  only  one  leg,  and  that  Vecellio  must  tire  your 
knees.  Sit  down  comfortably  ;  put  your  chair  on 
its  four  feet,  and  put  your  book  on  the  table." 

She  obeyed  me  with  a  laugh. 

I  watched  her.     She  cried  out  suddenly, 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  215 

"  Oh,  come  look  at  this  beautiful  costume  !  " 
(It  was  that  of  the  wife  of  a  Doge  of  Venice.) 
"  How  noble  it  is  !  What  magnificent  ideas  it 
gives  one  of  that  life  !  Oh,  I  must  tell  you — I 
adore  luxury  !  " 

"  You  must  not  express  such  thoughts  as  those, 
Mademoiselle,"  said  the  schoolmistress,  lifting  up 
her  little  shapeless  nose  from  her  work. 

"  Nevertheless,  it  was  a  very  innocent  utterance," 
I  replied.  "  There  are  splendid  souls  in  whom  the 
love  of  splendid  things  is  natural  and  inborn." 

The  little  shapeless  nose  went  down  again. 

"  Mademoiselle  Prefere  likes  luxury  too,"  said 
Jeanne  ;  "  she  cuts  out  paper  trimmings  and  shades 
for  the  lamps.  It  is  economical  luxury;  but  it  is 
luxury  all  the  same." 

Having  returned  to  the  subject  of  Venice,  we  were 
just  about  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  a  certain 
patrician  lady  attired  in  an  embroidered  dalmatic, 
when  I  heard  the  bell  ring.  I  thought  it  was  some 
peddler  with  his  basket ;  but  the  gate  of  the  City 
of  Books  opened,  and  .  .  .  Well,  Master  Sylvestre 
Bnnnard,  you  were  wishing  awhile  ago  that  the  grace 
of  your  protegee  might  be  observed  by  some  other 
eyes  than  old  withered  ones  behind  spectacles. 
Your  wishes  have  been  fulfilled  in  a  most  unexpected 
manner,  and  a  voice  cries  out  to  yon.  as  to  the 
imprudent  Theseus, 


216  THE  CRIME  OF 

"  Craignez,  Seigneur,  craignez  que  le  Ciel  rigoureui 
Ne  vous  hai'sse  assez  pour  exaucer  vos  vceux ! 
Souvent  dans  sa  colere  il  re9oit  nos  victimes, 
Ses  presents  sont  souvent  la  peine  de  nos  crimes."  * 

The  gate  of  the  City  of  Books  had  opened,  and  a 
handsome  young  man  made  his  appearance,  ushered 
in  by  Therese.  That  good  old  soul  only  knows  how 
to  open  the  door  for  people  and  to  shut  it  behind 
them  ;  she  has  no  idea  whatever  of  the  tact  requisite 
for  the  waiting-room  and  for  the  parlour.  It  is  not 
in  her  nature  either  to  make  any  announcements  or 
to  make  anybody  wait.  She  either  throws  people 
out  on  the  lobby,  or  simply  pitches  them  at  your 
head. 

And  here  is  this  handsome  young  man  already 
inside  ;  and  I  cannot  really  take  the  girl  at  once  and 
hide  her  like  a  secret  treasure  in  the  next  room.  I 
wait  for  him  to  explain  himself  ;  he  does  it  without 
the  least  embarrassment ;  but  it  seems  to  me  that 
he  has  already  observed  the  young  girl  who  is  still 
bending  over  the  table  looking  at  Vecellio.  As  I 
observe  the  young  man  it  occurs  to  me  that  I  have 
seen  him  somewhere  before,  or  else  I  must  be  very 
much  mistaken.  His  name  is  Gelis.  That  is  a 
name  which  I  have  heard  somewhere, — I  can't 

*  "  Beware,  my  lord  !  Beware  lest  stern  Heaven  hate  you 
enough  to  hear  your  prayers !  Often  'tis  in  wrath  that  Heaven 
receives  our  sacrifices;  its  gifts  are  often  the  punishment  of  our 
crime*." 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  217 

remember  where.  At  all  events,  Monsieur  Gelis 
(since  there  is  a  Gelis)  is  a  fine-looking  young 
fellow.  He  tells  me  that  this  is  his  third  class-year 
at  the  Ecole  des  Chartes,  and  that  he  has  been 
working  for  the  past  fifteen  or  eighteen  months 
upon  his  graduation  thesis,  the  subject  of  which  is 
the  Condition  of  the  Benedictine  Abbeys  in  1700. 
He  has  just  read  my  works  upon  the  "  Monas- 
ticon " ;  and  he  is  convinced  that  he  cannot 
terminate  his  thesis  successfully  without  my  advice, 
to  begin  with,  and  in  the  second  place  without 
a  certain  manuscript  which  I  possess,  and  which 
is  nothing  less  than  the  "  Register  of  the  Accounts 
of  the  Abbey  of  Citeaux  from  1683  to  1704." 

Having  thus  explained  himself,  he  hands  me  a 
letter  of  introduction  bearing  the  signature  of  one 
of  the  most  illustrious  of  my  colleagues. 

Good  !  Now  I  know  who  he  is !  Monsieur 
Gelis  is  the  very  same  young  man  who  last  year 
under  the  chestnut-trees  called  me  an  idiot ! 
And  while  unfolding  his  letter  of  introduction  I 
think  to  myself  : 

"  Aha  !  my  unlucky  youth,  you  are  very  far  from 
suspecting  that  I  overheard  what  you  said,  and  that 
I  know  what  you  think  of  me— or,  at  least,  what  you 
did  think  of  me  that  day,  for  these  young  minds  are 
so  fickle  ?  I  have  got  you  now,  my  friend  !  You 
have  fallen  into  the  lion's  den,  and  so  unexpectedly  > 


2i8  THE  CRIME  OF 

in  good  sooth,  that  the  astonished  old  lion  does  not 
know  what  to  do  with  his  prey.  But  come  now,  old 
iion  !  do  not  act  like  an  idiot !  Is  it  not  possible 
that  you  were  an  idiot  ?  If  you  are  not  one  now, 
you  certainly  were  one  !  You  were  a  fool  to  have 
been  listening  to  Monsieur  Gelis  at  the  foot  of  the 
statue  of  Marguerite  de  Valois ;  you  were  doubly  a 
fool  to  have  heard  what  he  said  ;  and  you  were 
trebly  a  fool  not  to  have  forgotten  what  it  would 
have  been  much  better  never  to  have  heard." 

Having  thus  scolded  the  old  lion,  1  exhorted  him 
to  show  clemency.  He  did  not  appear  to  require 
much  coaxing,  and  gradually  became  so  good- 
natured  that  he  had  some  difficulty  in  restraining 
himself  from  bursting  out  into  joyous  roarings. 
From  the  way  in  which  I  had  read  my  colleague's 
letter  one  might  have  supposed  me  a  man  who  did 
not  know  his  alphabet.  I  took  a  long  while  to  read 
it  ;  and  Monsieur  Gelis  might  have  become  very 
tired  under  different  circumstances  ;  but  he  was 
watching  Jeanne,  and  endured  the  trial  with 
exemplary  patience.  Jeanne  occasionally  turned 
\ier  face  in  our  direction.  Well,  you  could  not 
expect  a  person  to  remain  perfectly  motionless, 
could  you  ?  Mademoiselle  Prefere  was  arranging 
her  curls,  and  her  bosom  occasionally  swelled  with 
little  sighs.  It  may  be  observed  that  I  have  myself 
often  been  honoured  with  these  little  sighs. 


SYLVESTRE    BONNARD  219 

"  Monsieur,"  I  said,  as  I  folded  up  the  letter,  "  I 
shall  be  very  happy  to  be  of  any  service  to  you.  You 
are  occupied  with  researches  in  which  I  myself  have 
always  felt  a  very  lively  interest.  I  have  done  all 
that  lay  in  my  power.  I  know,  as  you  do — and  still 
better  than  you  can  know — how  much  there  remains 
to  do.  The  manuscript  you  asked  for  is  at  your 
disposal;  you  may  take  it  home  with  you,  but  it 
is  not  a  manuscript  of  the  smallest  kind,  and  I  am 
afraid " 

"  Oh,  Monsieur,"  said  Gelis,  "  big  books  have 
never  been  able  to  make  me  afraid  of  them." 

I  begged  the  young  man  to  wait  for  me,  and  I 
went  into  the  next  room  to  get  the  Register,  which  I 
could  not  find  at  first,  and  which  I  almost  despaired 
of  finding,  as  I  discerned,  from  certain  familiar  signs, 
that  Therese  had  been  setting  the  room  in  order. 
But  the  Register  was  so  big  and  so  heavy  that, 
luckily  for  me,  Therese  had  not  been  able  to  put  it 
in  order  as  she  had  doubtless  wished  to  do.  I  could 
scarcely  lift  it  up  myself;  and  I  had  the  pleasure 
of  finding  it  quite  as  heavy  as  I  could  have  hoped. 

"  Wait,  my  boy,"  I  said,  with  a  smile  which  must 
have  been  very  sarcastic — "wait!  I  am  going  to 
give  you  something  to  do  which  will  break  your 
arms  first,  and  afterwards  your  head.  That  will 
be  the  first  vengeance  of  Sylvestre  Bonnard.  Later 
on  we  shall  see  what  else  there  is  to  be  done.'' 


C20  THE  CRIME  OF 

When  I  returned  to  the  City  of  Books  I  heard 
Monsieur  Gelis  and  Mademoiselle  Jeanne  chatting — 
chatting  together,  if  you  please  !  as  if  they  were  the 
best  friends  in  the  world.  Mademoiselle  Prefere, 
being  full  of  decorum,  did  not  say  anything ;  but 
the  other  two  were  chattering  like  birds.  And 
ivhat  about  ?  About  the  blond  tint  used  by 
Venetian  painters !  Yes,  about  the  "  Venetian 
blond."  That  little  serpent  of  a  Gelis  was  telling 
Jeanne  the  secret  of  the  dye  with  which,  according 
to  the  best  authorities,  the  women  of  Titian  and 
of  Veronese  tinted  their  hair.  And  Mademoiselle 
Jeanne  was  expressing  her  opinion  very  prettily  about 
the  honey  tint  and  the  golden  tint.  I  understood 
that  that  scamp  of  a  Vecellio  was  responsible — that 
they  had  been  bending  over  the  book  together,  and 
that  they  had  been  admiring  either  that  Doge's 
wife  we  had  been  looking  at  awhile  before,  or  some 
other  patrician  woman  of  Venice. 

Never  mind  !  I  appeared  with  my  enormous 
old  book,  thinking  that  Gelis  was  going  to  make  a 
grimace.  It  was  as  much  as  one  could  have  asked 
a  porter  to  carry,  and  my  arms  were  stiff  merely  with 
lifting  it.  But  the  young  man  caught  it  up  like  a 
feather,  and  slipped  it  under  his  arm  with  a  smile. 
Then  he  thanked  me  with  that  sort  of  brevity  which 
I  like,  reminded  me  that  he  had  need  of  my  advice, 
and,  having  made  an  appointment  to  meet  me 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  221 

another  day,  took  his  departure  after  bowing  to  us 
with  the  most  perfect  self-possession  conceivable. 

"  He  seems  quite  a  decent  lad,"  I  said. 

Jeanne  turned  over  a  few  more  pages  of  Vecellio, 
and  made  no  answer. 

"  Aha  !  "  I  thought  to  myself.  .  .  .  And  then 
we  went  to  Saint-Cloud 

September-December. 

THE  regularity  with  which  visit  succeeded  visit  to 
the  old  man's  house  thereafter  made  me  feel  very 
grateful  to  Mademoiselle  Prefere,  who  succeeded  at 
last  in  winning  her  right  to  occupy  a  special  corner 
in  the  City  of  Books.  She  now  says  "  my  chair," 
"  my  footstool,"  "  my  pigeon-hole."  Her  pigeon- 
hole is  really  a  small  shelf  properly  belonging  to  the 
poets  of  La  Champagne,  whom  she  expelled  there- 
from in  order  to  obtain  a  lodging  for  her  work-bag. 
She  is  very  amiable,  and  I  must  really  be  a  monster 
not  to  like  her.  I  can  only  endure  her — in  the 
severest  signification  of  the  word.  But  what  would 
one  not  endure  for  Jeanne's  sake  ?  Her  presence 
lends  to  the  City  of  Books  a  charm  which  seems  tc 
hover  about  it  even  after  she  has  gone.  She  is  very 
ignorant  ;  but  she  is  so  finely  gifted  that  whenever  I 
show  her  anything  beautiful  I  am  astounded  to  find 
that  I  had  never  really  seen  it  before,  and  that  it  is 
she  who  makes  me  see  it.  I  have  found  it  impossible 


222  THE  CRIME  OF 

so  far  to  make  her  follow  some  of  my  ideas,  but  I 
have  often  found  pleasure  in  following  the  whimsical 
and  delicate  course  of  her  own. 

A  more  practical  man  than  I  would  attempt  to 
teach  her  to  make  herself  useful  ;  but  is  not  the 
capacity  of  being  amiable  a  useful  thing  in  life  ? 
Without  being  pretty,  she  charms ;  and  the  power  to 
charm  is  perhaps,  after  all,  worth  quite  as  much  as 
the  ability  to  darn  stockings.  Furthermore,  I  am 
not  immortal  ;  and  I  doubt  whether  she  will  have 
become  very  old  when  my  notary  (who  is  not 
Maitre  Mouche)  shall  read  to  her  a  certain  paper 
which  I  signed  a  little  while  ago. 

I  do  not  wish  that  any  one  except  myself  should 
provide  for  her,  and  give  her  her  dowry,  i  am  not, 
however,  very  rich,  and  the  paternal  inheritance  did 
not  gain  bulk  in  my  hands.  One  does  not  accumulate 
money  by  poring  over  old  texts.  But  my  books — 
at  the  price  which  such  noble  merchandise  fetches 
to-day — are  worth  something.  Why,  on  that  shelf 
there  are  some  poets  of  the  sixteenth  century  for 
which  bankers  would  bid  against  princes  !  And  I 
think  that  those  "  Heures  "  of  Simon  Vostre  would 
lot  be  readily  overlooked  at  the  Hotel  Sylvestre  any 
more  than  would  those  Preces  Pits  compiled  for  the 
use  of  Queen  Claude.  I  have  taken  great  pains  to 
collect  and  to  preserve  all  those  rare  and  curious 
editions  which  people  the  City  of  Books  ;  and  for 


SYLVES1RE  BONNARD  223 

a  long  time  I  used  to  believe  that  they  were  as 
necessary  to  my  life  as  air  and  light.  I  have  loved 
them  well,  and  even  now  I  cannot  prevent  myself 
from  smiling  at  them  and  caressing  them.  Those 
morocco  bindings  are  so  delightful  to  the  eye  ! 
Those  old  vellums  are  so  soft  to  the  touch  !  There 
is  not  a  single  one  among  those  books  which  is  not 
worthy,  by  reason  of  some  special  merit,  to  command 
the  respect  of  an  honourable  man.  What  other 
owner  would  ever  know  how  to  dip  into  them  in 
the  proper  way  ?  Can  I  be  even  sure  that  another 
owner  would  not  leave  them  to  decay  in  neglect, 
or  mutilate  them  at  the  prompting  of  some  ignorant 
whim  ?  Into  whose  hands  will  fall  that  incompar- 
able copy  of  the  "  Histoire  de  1'Abbaye  de  Saint- 
Germain-des-Pres,"  on  the  margins  of  which  the 
author  himself,  in  the  person  of  Jacques  Bouillard, 
made  such  substantial  notes  in  his  own  hand- 
writing ?  .  .  .  Master  Bonnard,  you  are  an  old 
fool  !  Your  housekeeper — poor  soul  ! — is  nailed 
down  upon  her  bed  with  a  merciless  attack  of 
rheumatism.  Jeanne  is  to  come  with  her  chaperon, 
and,  instead  of  thinking  how  you  are  going  to  re- 
ceive them,  you  are  thinking  about  a  thousand 
stupidities.  Sylvestre  Bonnard,  you  will  never 
succeed  at  anything  in  this  world,  and  it  is  I 
myself  who  tell  you  so  ! 

And  at  this  very  moment  I  catch  sight  of  them 


224  THE  CRIME  OF 

from  my  window,  as  they  get  out  of  the  omnibus. 
Jeanne  leaps  down  like  a  kitten  ;  but  Mademoiselle 
Prefere  intrusts  herself  to  the  strong  arm  of  the 
conductor,  with  the  shy  grace  of  a  Virginia  recover- 
ing after  the  shipwreck,  and  this  time  quite  resigned 
to  being  saved.  Jeanne  looks  up,  sees  me,  laughs, 
and  Mademoiselle  Prefere  has  to  prevent  her  from 
waving  her  umbrella  at  me  as  a  friendly  signal. 
There  is  a  certain  stage  of  civilisation  to  which 
Mademoiselle  Jeanne  never  can  be  brought.  You 
can  teach  her  all  the  arts  if  you  like  (it  is  not  exactly 
to  Mademoiselle  Prefere  that  I  am  now  speaking) ; 
but  you  will  never  be  able  to  teach  her  perfect 
manners.  As  a  charming  girl  she  makes  the  mistake 
of  being  charming  only  in  her  own  way.  Only  an 
old  fool  like  myself  could  forgive  her  pranks.  As 
for  young  fools — and  there  are  several  of  them  still 
to  be  found — I  do  not  know  what  they  would 
think  about  it ;  and  what  they  might  think  is  none 
of  my  business.  Just  look  at  her  running  along 
the  pavement,  wrapped  up  in  her  cloak,  with  her  hat 
tilted  back  on  her  head,  and  her  feather  fluttering  in 
the  wind,  like  a  schooner  in  full  rig !  And  really 
she  has  a  grace  of  poise  and  motion  which  suggests 
a  fine  sailing-vessel — so  much  so,  indeed,  that  she 
makes  me  remember  seeing  one  day,  when  I  was  at 
Havre  .  .  .  But,  Bonnard,  my  friend,  how  many 
times  is  it  necessary  to  tell  you  that  your  house- 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  225 

keeper  is  in  bed,  and  that  you  must  go  and  open  the 
door  yourself  ? 

Open,  Old  Man  Winter  !  'tis  Spring  who  rings 
the  bell. 

It  is  Jeanne  herself — Jeanne  all  flushed  like  a 
rose.  Mademoiselle  Prefere,  indignant  and  out  of 
breath,  has  still  another  whole  flight  to  climb  before 
reaching  our  lobby. 

I  explained  the  condition  of  my  housekeeper,  and 
proposed  that  we  should  dine  at  a  restaurant.  But 
Therese — all-powerful  still,  even  upon  her  sick-bed 
— decided  that  we  should  dine  at  home,  whether 
we  wanted  to  or  no.  Respectable  people,  in  her 
opinion,  never  dined  at  restaurants.  Moreover,  she 
had  made  all  necessary  arrangements — the  dinner 
had  been  bought ;  the  concierge  would  cook  it. 

The  audacious  Jeanne  insisted  upon  going  to  see 
whether  the  old  woman  wanted  anything.  As  you 
might  suppose,  she  was  sent  back  to  the  parlour 
with  short  shrift,  but  not  so  harshly  as  I  had  feared. 

"  If  I  want  anybody  to  do  anything  for  me, 
which,  thank  God,  I  do  not,"  Therese  had  replied, 
"  I  would  get  somebody  less  delicate  and  dainty 
than  you  are.  What  I  want  is  rest.  That  is  a 
merchandise  which  is  not  sold  at  fairs  under  the 
sign  of  Motus  with  "finger  on  lip.  Go  and  have 
your  fun,  and  don't  stay  here — for  old  age  might 
be  catching." 


226  THE  CRIME  OF 

Jeanne,  after  telling  us  what  she  had  said,  added 
that  she  liked  very  much  to  hear  old  Therese  talk. 
Whereupon  Mademoiselle  Prefere  reproached  her 
for  expressing  such  unladylike  tastes. 

I  tried  to  excuse  her  by  citing  the  example  of 
Moliere.  Just  at  that  moment  it  came  to  pass  that, 
while  climbing  the  ladder  to  get  a  book,  she  upset  a 
whole  shelf-row.  There  was  a  heavy  crash  ;  and 
Mademoiselle  Prefere,  being,  of  course,  a  very  deli- 
cate person,  almost  fainted.  Jeanne  quickly  followed 
the  books  to  the  foot  of  the  ladder.  She  made  one 
think  of  a  kitten  suddenly  transformed  into  a  woman, 
catching  mice  which  had  been  transformed  into  old 
books.  While  picking  them  up,  she  found  one  which 
happened  to  interest  her,  and  she  began  to  read  it, 
squatting  down  upon  her  heels.  It  was  the  "  Prince 
Grenouille,"  she  told  us.  Mademoiselle  Prefere 
took  occasion  to  complain  that  Jeanne  had  so  little 
taste  for  poetry.  It  was  impossible  to  get  her  to 
recite  Casimir  Delavigne's  poem  on  the  death  of 
Joan  of  Arc  without  mistakes.  It  was  the  very 
most  she  could  do  to  learn  "  Le  Petit  Savoyard." 
The  schoolmistress  did  not  think  that  any  one 
should  read  the  "  Prince  Grenouille  "  before  learning 
by  heart  the  stanzas  to  Duperrier  ;  and,  carried 
away  by  her  enthusiasm,  she  began  to  recite 
them  in  a  vnce  sweeter  than  the  bleating  of  a 
•heep  : 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  227 

*"  Ta  douleur,  Duperrier,  sera  done  cternelle, 

Et  les  tristes  discours 
Que  te  met  en  1'esprit  1'amitie  paternelle 
L'augmenteront  toujours ; 

"  '  Je  sais  de  quels  appas  son  enfance  etait  pleine, 

Et  n'ai  pas  entrepns, 
Injurieux  ami,  de  consoler  ta  peme 
Avecque  son  mepris.' " 

Then  in  ecstasy  she  exclaimed, 

"  How  beautiful  that  is  !  What  harmony  ! 
How  is  it  possible  for  any  one  not  to  admire  such 
exquisite,  such  touching  verses  !  But  why  did 
Malherbe  call  that  poor  Monsieur  Duperrier  his 
'  injurieux  ami '  at  a  time  when  he  had  been  so 
severely  tried  by  the  death  of  his  daughter  ?  In- 
jurieux ami — you  must  acknowledge  that  the  term 
was  very  harsh." 

I  explained  to  this  poetical  person  that  the  phrase 
"  Injurieux  ami"  which  shocked  her  so  much,  was  in 
apposition,  etc.  etc.  What  I  said,  however,  had  so 
little  effect  towards  clearing  her  head  that  she  was 
seized  with  a  severe  and  prolonged  fit  of  sneezing. 
Meanwhile  it  was  evident  that  the  history  of 
"  Prince  Grenouille  "  had  proved  extremely  funny  ; 
for  it  was  all  that  Jeanne  could  do,  as  she  crouched 
down  there  on  the  carpet,  to  keep  herself  from 
bursting  into  a  wild  fit  of  laughter.  But  when  she 
had  finished  with  the  prince  and  princess  of  the 


228  THE  CRIME  OF 

stoiy,  and  the  multitude  of  their  children,  she 
assumed  a  very  suppliant  expression,  and  begged 
me  as  a  great  favour  to  allow  her  to  put  on  a  white 
apron  and  go  to  the  kitchen  to  help  in  getting  the 
dinner  ready. 

"  Jeanne,"  I  replied,  with  the  gravity  of  a  master, 
"  I  think  that  if  it  is  a  question  of  breaking  plates, 
knocking  off  the  edges  of  dishes,  denting  all  the 
pans,  and  smashing  all  the  skimmers,  the  person 
whom  Therese  has  set  to  work  in  the  kitchen 
already  will  be  able  to  perform  her  task  without 
assistance  ;  for  it  seems  to  me  at  this  very  moment 
I  can  hear  disastrous  noises  in  that  kitchen.  But 
anyhow,  Jeanne,  I  will  charge  you  with  the  duty 
of  preparing  the  dessert.  So  go  and  get  your  white 
apron ;  I  will  tie  it  on  for  you." 

Accordingly,  I  solemnly  knotted  the  linen  apron 
about  her  waist ;  and  she  rushed  into  the  kitchen, 
where  she  proceeded  at  once — as  we  discovered  later 
on — to  prepare  various  dishes  unknown  to  Vatel, 
unknown  even  to  that  great  Careme  who  began 
his  treatise  upon  pieces  montees  with  these  words  : 
"  The  Fine  Arts  are  five  in  number :  Painting, 
Music,  Poetry,  Sculpture,  and  Architecture — whereof 
the  principal  branch  is  Confectionery"  But  I  had 
no  reason  to  be  pleased  with  this  little  arrangement 
— for  Mademoiselle  Prefere,  on  finding  herself 
alone  with  me,  began  to  act  After  a  fashion  which 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  229 

filled  me  with  frightful  anxiety.  She  gazed  upon 
me  with  eyes  full  of  tears  and  flames,  and  uttered 
enormous  sighs. 

"  Oh,  how  I  pity  you  !  "  she  said.  "  A  man  like 
you — a  man  so  superior  as  you  are — having  to  live 
alone  with  a  coarse  servant  (for  she  is  certainly 
coarse,  that  is  incontestable)  !  How  cruel  such  a 
life  must  be  !  You  have  need  of  repose — you 
have  need  of  comfort,  of  care,  of  every  kind  of 
attention  ;  you  might  fall  sick.  And  yet  there  is 
no  woman  who  would  not  deem  it  an  honour  to 
bear  your  name,  and  to  share  your  existence.  No, 
there  is  none  ;  my  own  heart  tells  me  so." 

And  she  squeezed  both  hands  over  that  heart  of 
hers — always  so  ready  to  fly  away. 

1  was  driven  almost  to  distraction.  I  tried  to 
make  Mademoiselle  Prefere  comprehend  that  I 
had  no  intention  whatever  of  changing  my  habits 
at  so  advanced  an  age,  and  that  I  found  just  as 
much  happiness  in  life  as  my  character  and  my 
circumstances  rendered  possible. 

"  No,  you  are  not  happy  !  "  she  cried.  "  You 
need  to  have  always  beside  you  a  mind  capable  of 
comprehending  your  own.  Shake  off  your  lethargy, 
and  cast  your  eyes  about  you.  Your  professional 
connections  are  of  the  most  extended  character, 
and  you  must  have  charming  acquaintances.  One 
cannot  be  a  Member  of  the  Institute  without  going 

0 


130  THE  CRIME  OF 

into  society.  See,  judge,  compare.  No  sensible 
woman  would  refuse  you  her  hand.  I  am  a  woman, 
Monsieur  ;  my  instinct  never  deceives  me — there 
is  something  within  me  which  assures  me  that  you 
would  find  happiness  in  marriage.  Women  are  so 
devoted,  so  loving  (not  all,  of  course,  but  some)  ! 
And,  then,  they  are  so  sensitive  to  glory.  Remember 
that  at  your  age  one  has  need,  like  (Edipus,  of 
an  Egeria  !  Your  cook  is  no  longer  able — she  is 
deaf,  she  is  infirm.  If  anything  should  happen 
to  you  at  night  !  Oh  !  it  makes  me  shudder  even 
to  think  of  it  !  " 

And  she  really  shuddered — she  closed  her  eyes, 
clenched  her  hands,  stamped  on  the  floor.  Great 
was  my  dismay.  With  awful  intensity  she  resumed, 

"  Your  health — your  dear  health  !  The  health 
of  a  Member  of  the  Institute  !  How  joyfully  I 
would  shed  the  very  last  drop  of  my  blood  to  pre- 
serve the  life  of  a  scholar,  of  a  litterateur,  of  a  man 
of  worth.  And  any  woman  who  would  not  do  as 
much,  I  should  despise  her !  Let  me  tell  you, 
Monsieur — I  used  to  know  the  wife  of  a  great 
mathematician,  a  man  who  used  to  fill  whole 
note-books  with  calculations — so  many  note- 
books that  they  filled  all  the  cupboards  in  the  house. 
He  had  heart-disease,  and  he  was  visibly  pining 
away.  And  I  saw  that  wife  of  his,  sitting  there 
beside  him,  perfectly  calm  !  I  could  not  endure  it, 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  231 

I  said  to  her  one  day,  *  My  dear,  you  have  no 
heart  !  If  I  were  in  your  place  I  should  ...  I 
should  ...  I  do  not  know  what  I  should  do  !  ' 

She  paused  for  want  of  breath.  My  situation 
was  terrible.  As  for  telling  Mademoiselle  Prefere 
what  I  really  thought  about  her  advice — that  w.is 
something  which  I  could  not  even  dream  of  daring 
to  do.  For  to  fall  out  with  her  was  to  lose  the 
chance  of  seeing  Jeanne.  So  I  resolved  to  take 
the  matter  quietly.  In  any  case,  she  was  in  my 
house  :  that  consideration  helped  me  to  treat 
her  with  something  of  courtesy. 

"  I  am  very  old,  Mademoiselle,"  I  answered  her, 
"  and  I  am  very  much  afraid  that  your  advice  comes 
to  me  rather  too  late  in  life.  Still,  I  will  think 
about  it.  In  the  meanwhile  let  me  beg  of  you  to  be 
calm.  I  think  a  glass  of  eau  sucree  would  do  you 
good  !  " 

To  my  great  surprise,  these  words  calmed  her  at 
once  ;  and  I  saw  her  sit  down  very  quietly  in  he* 
corner,  close  to  her  pigeon-hole,  upon  her  chair,  with 
her  feet  upon  her  footstool. 

The  dinner  was  a  complete  failure.  Mademoiselle 
Prefere,  who  seemed  lost  in  a  brown  study,  never 
noticed  the  fact.  As  a  rule  I  am  very  sensitive 
about  such  misfortunes ;  but  this  one  caused 
Jeanne  so  much  delight  that  at  last  I  could  not 
help  enjoying  it  myself.  Even  at  mv  age  I  had  not 


232  THE  CRIME  OF 

been  able  to  learn  before  that  a  chicken,  raw  on  one 
side  and  burned  on  the  other,  was  a  funny  thing  ; 
but  Jeanne's  bursts  of  laughter  taught  me  that  it 
was.  That  chicken  caused  us  to  say  a  thousand 
very  witty  things,  which  I  have  forgotten  ;  and  I 
was  enchanted  that  it  had  not  been  properly  cooked. 
Jeanne  put  it  back  to  roast  again  ;  then  she  broiled 
it ;  then  she  stewed  it  with  butter.  And  every 
time  it  came  back  to  the  table  it  was  much  less 
appetising  and  much  more  mirth-proi  oking  than 
before.  When  we  did  eat  it,  at  last,  it  had  become 
a  thing  for  which  there  is  no  name  in  any  cuisine. 

The  almond  cake  was  much  more  extraordinary. 
It  was  brought  to  the  table  in  the  pan,  because  it 
never  could  have  been  got  out  of  it.  I  invited 
Jeanne  to  help  us  all  to  a  piece,  thinking  that  I 
was  going  to  embarrass  her  ;  but  she  broke  the  pan 
and  gave  each  of  us  a  fragment.  To  think  that 
anybody  at  my  age  could  eat  such  things  was  an 
idea  possible  only  to  a  very  artless  mind.  Made- 
moiselle Prefere,  suddenly  awakened  from  her 
dream,  indignantly  pushed  away  the  sugary  splinter 
of  earthenware,  and  deemed  it  opportune  to  in- 
form me  that  she  herself  was  exceedingly  skilful  in 
making  confectionery. 

"  Ah  !  "  exclaimed  Jeanne,  with  an  air  of  surprise 
not  altogether  without  malice. 

Then  she  wrapped  all  the  fragments  of  the  pan  in 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  233 

a  piece  of  paper,  for  the  purpose  of  giving  them  to 
her  little  playmates — especially  to  the  three  little 
Mouton  girls,  who  are  naturally  inclined  to  gluttony. 

Secretly,  however,  I  was  beginning  to  feel  very 
uneasy.  It  did  not  now  seem  in  any  way  possible 
to  keep  much  longer  upon  good  terms  with  Made- 
moiselle Prefere  since  her  matrimonial  fury  had 
thus  burst  forth.  And  that  lady  affronted,  good-bye 
to  Jeanne  !  I  took  advantage  of  a  moment  while 
the  sweet  soul  was  busy  putting  on  her  cloak,  in 
order  to  ask  Jeanne  to  tell  me  exactly  what  her  own 
age  was.  She  was  eighteen  years  and  one  month 
old.  I  counted  on  my  fingers,  and  found  she  would 
not  come  of  age  for  another  two  years  and  eleven 
months.  And  how  should  we  be  able  to  manage 
during  all  that  time  ? 

At  the  door  Mademoiselle  Prefere  squeezed  my 
hand  with  so  much  meaning  that  I  fairly  shook 
from  head  to  foot. 

"  Good-bye,"  I  said  very  gravely  to  the  young 
girl.  "  But  listen  to  me  a  moment  :  your  friend 
is  very  old,  and  might  perhaps  fail  you  when  you 
need  him  most.  Promise  me  never  to  fail  in  your 
duty  to  yourself,  and  then  I  shall  have  no  fear. 
God  keep  you,  my  child  !  " 

After  closing  the  door  behind  them,  I  opened  the 
window  to  get  a  last  look  at  her  as  she  was  going 
away.  But  the  night  was  dark,  and  I  could  see  only 


234  THE  CRIME  OF 

two  vague  shadows  flitting  across  the  quay.  I 
heard  the  vast  deep  hum  of  the  city  rising  up  about 
me  ;  and  I  suddenly  felt  a  great  sinking  at  my 
heart. 

Poor  child  ! 

December  15. 

THE  King  of  Thule  kept  a  goblet  of  gold  which 
his  dying  mistress  had  bequeathed  him  as  a  souvenir. 
When  about  to  die  himself,  after  having  drunk  from 
it  for  the  last  time,  he  threw  the  goblet  into  the 
sea.  And  I  keep  this  diary  of  memories  even  as 
that  old  prince  of  the  mist-haunted  seas  kept  his 
carven  goblet  ;  and  even  as  he  flung  away  at  last  his 
love-pledge,  so  will  I  burn  this  my  book  of  souvenirs. 
Assuredly  it  is  not  through  any  arrogant  avarice  > 
nor  through  any  egotistical  pride,  that  I  shall 
destroy  this  record  of  a  humble  life — it  is  only 
because  I  fear  lest  those  things  which  are  dear  and 
sacred  to  me  might  appear  to  others,  because  of 
my  inartistic  manner  of  expression,  either  common- 
place or  absurd. 

I  do  not  say  this  in  view  of  what  is  going  to  follow. 
Absurd  I  certainly  must  have  been  when,  having 
been  invited  to  dinner  by  Mademoiselle  Prefere, 
I  took  my  seat  in  a  bergere  (it  was  really  a  bergere}  at 
the  right  hand  of  that  alarming  person.  The  table 
had  been  set  in  a  little  parlour  ;  and  I  could  observe 
from  the  poor  way  in  which  it  was  set  out  that  the 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  235 

schoolmistress  was  one  of  those  ethereal  souls  who 
soar  above  terrestrial  things.  Chipped  plates,  un- 
matched glasses,  knives  with  loose  handles,  forks 
with  yellow  prongs — there  was  absolutely  nothing 
wanting  to  spoil  the  appetite  of  an  honest  man. 

I  was  assured  that  the  dinner  had  been  cooked  for 
me — for  me  alone — although  Maltre  Mouche  had 
also  been  invited.  Mademoiselle  Prefere  must 
have  imagined  that  I  had  Sarmatian  tastes  on  the 
subject  of  butter  ;  for  that  which  she  offered  me» 
served  up  in  little  thin  pats,  was  excessively 
rancid. 

The  roast  very  nearly  poisoned  me.  But  I  had 
the  pleasure  of  hearing  Maltre  Mouche  and  Made- 
moiselle Prefere  discourse  upon  virtue.  I  said  the 
pleasure — I  ought  to  have  said  the  shame  ;  for  the 
sentiments  to  which  they  gave  expression  soared 
far  beyond  the  range  of  my  vulgar  nature. 

What  they  said  proved  to  me  as  clear  as  day  that 
devotedness  was  their  daily  bread,  and  that  self- 
sacrifice  was  not  less  necessary  to  their  existence 
than  air  and  water.  Observing  that  I  was  not  eating 
Mademoiselle  Prefere  made  a  thousand  efforts  tc 
overcome  that  which  she  was  good  enough  to  term 
my  "  discretion."  Jeanne  was  not  of  the  party, 
because,  I  was  told,  her  presence  at  it  would  have 
been  contrary  to  the  rules,  and  would  have  wounded 
the  feelings  of  the  other  school-children,  among 


236  THE  CRIME  OF 

whom  it  was  necessary  to  maintain  a  certain  equality. 
I  secretly  congratulated  her  upon  having  escaped 
from  the  Merovingian  butter ;  from  the  huge 
radishes,  empty  as  funeral -urns ;  from  the  leathery 
roast,  and  from  various  other  curiosities  of  diet  to 
which  I  had  exposed  myself  for  the  love  of  her. 

The  extremely  disconsolate-looking  servant  served 
up  some  liquid  to  which  they  gave  the  name  of 
cream — I  do  not  know  why — and  vanished  away 
like  a  ghost. 

Then  Mademoiselle  Prefere  related  to  Maltre 
Mouche,  with  extraordinary  transports  of  emotion, 
all  that  she  had  said  to  me  in  the  City  of  Books, 
during  the  time  that  my  housekeeper  was  sick  in 
bed.  Her  admiration  for  a  Member  of  the  Institute, 
her  terror  lest  I  should  be  taken  ill  while  unattended, 
and  the  certainty  she  felt  that  any  intelligent  woman 
would  be  proud  and  happy  to  share  my  existence — 
she  concealed  nothing,  but,  on  the  contrary,  added 
many  fresh  follies  to  the  recital.  Maitre  Mouche 
kept  nodding  his  head  in  approval  while  cracking 
nuts.  Then,  after  all  this  verbiage,  he  demanded, 
with  an  agreeable  smile,  what  my  answer  had  been. 

Mademoiselle  Prefere,  pressing  one  hand  upon 
her  heart  and  extending  the  other  towards  me, 
cried  out, 

"  He  is  so  affectionate,  so  superior,  so  gocd,  and 
BO  great !  He  answered.  .  .  .  But  I  could  never* 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  237 

because  I  am  only  a  humble  woman — I  could 
never  repeat  the  words  of  a  Member  of  the  Insti- 
tute. I  can  only  utter  the  substance  of  them. 
He  answered,  *  Yes,  I  understand  you — yes.' ' 

And  with  these  words  she  reached  out  and 
seized  one  of  my  hands.  Then  Maitre  Mouche, 
also  overwhelmed  with  emotion,  arose  and  seized 
my  other  hand. 

"  Monsieur,"  he  said,  "  permit  me  to  offer  my 
congratulations." 

Several  times  in  my  life  I  have  known  fear  ;  but 
never  before  had  I  experienced  any  fright  of  so 
nauseating  a  character.  A  sickening  terror  came 
upon  me. 

I  disengaged  my  two  hands,  and,  rising  to  my 
feet,  so  as  to  give  all  possible  seriousness  to  my 
words,  I  said, 

"  Madame,  either  I  explained  myself  very  badly 
when  you  were  at  my  house,  or  I  have  totally 
misunderstood  you  here  in  your  own.  In  either 
case,  a  positive  declaration  is  absolutely  necessary. 
Permit  me,  Madame,  to  make  it  now,  very  plainly. 
No — I  never  did  understand  you  ;  I  am  totally 
ignorant  of  the  nature  of  this  marriage  project 
that  you  have  been  planning  for  me — if  you  really 
have  been  planning  one.  In  any  event,  I  should 
not  think  of  marrying.  It  would  be  an  unpardon- 
able folly  at  my  age,  and  even  now,  at  this  moment,  I 


238  THE  CRIME  OF 

cannot  conceive  how  a  sensible  person  like  you 
could  ever  have  advised  me  to  marry.  Indeed,  I 
am  strongly  inclined  to  believe  that  I  must  have 
been  mistaken,  and  that  you  never  said  anything 
of  the  kind  before.  In  the  latter  case,  please  to 
excuse  an  old  man  totally  unfamiliar  with  the 
usages  of  society,  unaccustomed  to  the  conversation 
of  ladies,  and  very  contrite  for  his  mistake." 

Maitre  Mouche  went  back  very  softly  to  his 
place,  where,  not  finding  any  more  nuts  to  crack, 
he  began  to  whittle  a  cork. 

Mademoiselle  Prefere,  after  staring  at  me  for  a 
few  moments  with  an  expression  in  her  little  round 
dry  eyes  which  I  had  never  seen  there  before, 
suddenly  resumed  her  customary  sweetness  and 
graciousness.  Then  she  cried  out,  in  honeyed 
tones, 

"  Oh  !  these  learned  men  ! — these  studious  men  ! 
They  are  all  like  children.  Yes,  Monsieur  Bonnard, 
you  are  a  real  child  !  " 

Then,  turning  to  the  notary,  who  still  sat  very 
quietly  in  his  corner,  with  his  nose  over  his  cork, 
she  exclaimed,  in  beseeching  tone?., 

"  Oh,  do  not  accuse  him  !  Do  not  accuse  him  ! 
Do  not  think  any  evil  of  him,  I  beg  of  you  !  Do 
not  think  it  at  all  !  Must  I  ask  you  upon  my 
knees  ?  " 

Maitre   Mouche   continued   to  examine   all   the 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  239 

various  aspects  and  surfaces  of  his  cork  without 
making  any  further  manifestation. 

I  was  very  indignant  ;  and  I  know  that  my  cheeks 
must  have  been  extremely  red,  if  I  could  judge  by 
the  flush  of  heat  which  I  felt  rise  to  my  face.  This 
would  enable  me  to  explain  the  words  I  heard 
through  all  the  buzzing  in  my  ears  : 

"  I  am  frightened  about  him  !  our  poor  friend  ! 
.  .  .  Monsieur  Mouche,  be  kind  enough  to  open  a 
window  !  It  seems  to  me  that  a  compress  of  arnica 
would  do  him  some  good." 

I  rushed  out  into  the  street  with  an  unspeakable 
feeling  of  shame. 

"  My  poor  Jeanne  !  " 

December  20. 

I  PASSED  eight  days  without  hearing  anything 
further  in  regard  to  the  Prefere  establishment. 
Then,  feeling  myself  unable  to  remain  any  longer 
without  some  news  of  Clementine's  daughter,  and 
feeling  furthermore  that  I  owed  it  as  a  duty  to 
myself  not  to  cease  my  visits  to  the  school  without 
more  serious  cause,  I  took  my  way  to  Les  Ternes. 

The  parlour  seemed  to  me  more  cold,  more  damp, 
more  inhospitable,  and  more  insidious  than  ever 
before  ;  and  the  servant  much  more  silent  and 
much  more  scared.  I  asked  to  see  Mademoiselle 
Jeanne  ;  but,  after  a  very  considerable  time,  it  was 
Mademoiselle  Prefere  who  made  her  appearance 


240  THE  CRIME  OF 

instead — severe  and  pale,  with  lips  compressed  and 
a  hard  look  in  her  eyes. 

"  Monsieur,"  she  said,  folding  her  arms  over  her 
pelerine,  "  I  regret  very  much  that  I  cannot  allow 
you  to  see  Mademoiselle  Alexandre  to-day  ;  but  I 
cannot  possibly  do  it." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  I  asked,  in  astonishment 

"  Monsieur,"  she  replied,  "  the  reasons  which 
compel  me  to  request  that  your  visits  shall  be  less 
frequent  hereafter  are  of  an  excessively  delicate 
nature  ;  and  I  must  beg  you  to  spare  me  the 
unpleasantness  of  mentioning  them." 

"  Madame,"  I  replied,  "  I  have  been  authorised 
by  Jeanne's  guardian  to  see  his  ward  every  day. 
Will  you  please  to  inform  me  of  your  reasons  for 
opposing  the  will  of  Monsieur  Mouche  ?  " 

"  The  guardian  of  Mademoiselle  Alexandre,"  she 
replied  (and  she  dwelt  upon  that  word  "  guardian  " 
as  upon  a  solid  support),  "  desires,  quite  as  strongly 
as  I  myself  do,  that  your  assiduities  may  come  to  an 
end  as  soon  as  possible." 

"  Then,  if  that  be  the  case,"  I  said,  "  be  kind 
enough  to  let  me  know  his  reasons  and  your  own." 

She  loDked  up  at  the  little  spiral  of  paper  on  the 
ceiling,  and  then  replied,  with  stern  composure, 

"  You  insist  upon  it  ?  Well,  although  such 
explanations  are  very  painful  for  a  woman  to  make, 
1  will  yield  to  your  exactions.  This  house,  Mon- 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  241 

sieur,  is  an  honourable  house.  I  have  my  responsi- 
bility. I  have  to  watch  like  a  mother  over  each 
one  of  my  pupils.  Your  assiduities  in  regard  to 
Mademoiselle  Alexandre  could  not  possibly  be 
continued  without  serious  injury  to  the  young  girl 
herself ;  and  it  is  my  duty  to  insist  that  they  shall 


cease." 


"  I  do  not  really  understand  you,"  I  replied — and 
I  was  telling  the  plain  truth.  Then  she  deliberately 
resumed  : 

"  Your  assiduities  in  this  house  are  being  in- 
terpreted, by  the  most  respectable  and  the  least 
suspicious  persons,  in  such  a  manner  that  I  find 
myself  obliged,  both  in  the  interest  of  my  establish- 
ment and  in  the  interest  of  Mademoiselle  Alexandre, 
to  see  that  they  end  at  once." 

"  Madame,"  I  cried,  "  I  have  heard  a  great 
many  silly  things  in  my  life,  but  never  anything  so 
silly  as  what  you  have  just  said  !  " 

She  answered  me  very  quietly, 

"  Your  words  of  abuse  will  not  affect  me  in  the 
slightest.  When  one  has  a  duty  to  accomplish,  one 
is  strong  enough  to  endure  all." 

And  she  pressed  her  pelerine  over  her  heart  once 
more — not  perhaps  on  this  occasion  to  restrain,  but 
doubtless  only  to  caress  that  generous  heart. 

"  Madame,"  I  said,  shaking  my  ringer  at  her,  "  you 
have  wantonly  aroused  the  indignation  of  an  aged 


242  THE  CRIME  OF 

man.  Be  good  enough  to  act  in  such  a  fashion  that 
the  old  man  may  be  able  at  least  to  forget  your 
existence,  and  do  not  add  fresh  insults  to  those 
which  I  have  already  sustained  from  your  lips. 
I  give  you  fair  warning  that  I  shall  never  cease  to 
look  after  Mademoiselle  Alexandre  ;  and  that  should 
you  attempt  to  do  her  any  harm,  in  any  manner 
whatsoever,  you  will  have  serious  reason  to  regret  it ! " 

The  more  I  became  excited,  the  more  she  became 
cool ;  and  she  answered  in  a  tone  of  superb  in- 
difference : 

"  Monsieur,  I  am  much  too  well  informed  in 
regard  to  the  nature  of  the  interest  which  you  take 
in  this  young  girl,  not  to  withdraw  her  immediately 
from  that  very  surveillance  with  which  you  threaten 
me.  After  observing  the  more  than  equivocal 
intimacy  in  which  you  are  living  with  your  house- 
keeper, I  ought  to  have  taken  measures  at  once  to 
render  it  impossible  for  you  ever  to  come  into 
contact  with  an  innocent  child.  In  the  future  I 
shall  certainly  do  it.  If  up  to  this  time  I  have  been 
too  trustful,  it  is  for  Mademoiselle  Alexandre,  and 
not  for  you,  to  reproach  me  with  it.  But  she  is  too 
artless  and  too  pure — thanks  to  me  ! — ever  to  have 
suspected  the  nature  of  that  danger  into  which 
you  were  trying  to  lead  her.  I  scarcely  suppose 
that  you  will  place  me  under  the  necessity  of 
enlightening  her  upon  the  subject." 


SFLVESTRE   BONNARD  243 

"  Come,  my  poor  old  Bonnard,"  I  said  to  myself, 
as  I  shrugged  my  shoulders — "  so  you  had  to  live 
as  long  as  this  in  order  to  learn  for  the  first  time 
exactly  what  a  wicked  woman  is.  And  now  your 
knowledge  of  the  subject  is  complete." 

I  went  out  without  replying  ;  and  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  observing,  from  the  sudden  flush  which 
overspread  the  face  of  the  schoolmistress,  that  my 
silence  had  wounded  her  far  more  than  my  words. 

As  I  passed  through  the  court  I  looked  about  me 
in  every  direction  for  Jeanne.  She  was  watching 
for  me,  and  she  ran  to  me. 

"  If  anybody  touches  one  little  hair  of  your  head, 
Jeanne,  write  to  me  !  Good-bye  I  " 

;<  No,  not  good-bye.'' 

I  replied. 

"  Well,  no — not  good-bye  !     Write  to  me  !  " 

I  went  straight  to  Madame  de  Gabry's  residence. 

"  Madame  is  at  Rome  with  Monsieur.  Did  not 
Monsieur  know  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,"  I  replied.  "  Madame  wrote  to 
me."  .  .  . 

She  had  indeed  written  to  me  in  regard  to  her 
leaving  home  ;  but  my  head  must  have  become 
very  much  confused,  so  that  I  had  forgotten  all 
about  it.  The  servant  seemed  to  be  of  the  same 
opinion,  for  he  looked  at  me  in  a  wav  that  seemed 


244  THE  CRIME  OF 

to  signify,  "  Monsieur  Bonnard  is  doting  " — and  he 
leaned  down  over  the  balustrade  of  the  stairway  to 
see  if  I  was  not  going  to  do  something  extraordinary 
before  I  got  to  the  bottom.  But  I  descended  the 
stairs  rationally  enough  ;  and  then  he  drew  back 
his  head  in  disappointment. 

On  returning  home  I  was  informed  that  Monsieur 
Gelis  was  waiting  for  me  in  the  parlour.  (This 
young  man  has  become  a  constant  visitor.  His 
judgment  is  at  fault  at  times;  but  his  mind  is  not 
at  all  commonplace.)  On  this  occasion,  however, 
his  usually  welcome  visit  only  embarrassed  me. 
"  Alas ! "  I  thought  to  myself,  "  I  shall  be  sure  to 
say  something  very  stupid  to  my  young  friend 
to-day,  and  he  also  will  think  that  my  faculties 
are  becoming  impaired.  But  still  I  cannot  really 
explain  to  him  that  I  had  first  been  demanded  in 
wedlock,  and  subsequently  traduced  as  a  man 
wholly  devoid  of  morals — that  even  Therese  had 
become  an  object  of  suspicion — and  that  Jeanne 
remains  in  the  power  of  the  most  rascally  woman  on 
the  face  of  the  earth.  I  am  certainly  in  an  admir- 
able state  of  mind  for  conversing  about  Cistercian 
abbeys  with  a  young  and  mischievously  minded  man. 
Nevertheless,  we  shall  see — we  shall  try."  .  .  . 

But  The'rese  stopped  me  : 

"  How  red  you  are,  Monsieur  !  "  she  exclaimed, 
in  a  tone  of  reproach. 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  245 

a  It  must  be  the  spring,"  I  answered. 

She  cried  out, 

"  The  spring  ! — in  the  month  of  December  ?  " 

That  is  a  fact !  this  is  December.  Ah  !  what  is 
the  matter  with  my  head  ?  what  a  fine  help  I  am 
going  to  be  to  poor  Jeanne  ! 

"  Therese,  take  my  cane  ;  and  put  it,  if  you 
possibly  can,  in  some  place  where  I  shall  be  able 
to  find  it  again." 

"  Good-day,  Monsieur  Gelis.     How  are  you  ?  " 


Undated. 

NEXT  morning  the  old  boy  wanted  to  get  up  ;  but 
the  old  boy  could  not  get  up.  A  merciless  in  risible 
hand  kept  him  down  upon  his  bed.  Finding 
himself  immovably  riveted  there,  the  old  boy 
resigned  himself  to  remain  motionless ;  but  his 
thoughts  kept  running  in  all  directions. 

He  must  have  had  a  very  violent  fever  ;  for  Made- 
moiselle Prefere,  the  Abbots  of  Saint-Germain-des- 
Pres,  and  the  servant  of  Madame  de  Gabry  appeared 
to  him  in  divers  fantastic  shapes.  The  figure  of 
the  servant  in  particular  lengthened  weirdly  over 
his  head,  grimacing  like  some  gargoyle  of  a  cathedral. 
Then  it  seemed  to  me  that  there  were  a  great  many 
people,  much  too  many  people,  in  my  bedroom. 

This  bedroom  of  mine  is  furnished  after  the  anti- 

E 


246  THE  CRIME  OF 

quated  fashion.  The  portrait  of  my  father  in  fall 
uniform,  and  the  portrait  of  my  mother  in  her 
cashmere  dress,  are  suspended  on  the  wall.  The 
wall-paper  is  covered  with  green  foliage-designs. 
I  am  aware  of  all  this,  and  I  am  even  conscious  that 
everything  is  faded,  very  much  faded.  But  an  old 
man's  room  does  not  require  to  be  pretty  ;  it  is 
enough  that  it  should  be  clean,  and  Therese  sees 
to  that.  At  all  events  my  room  is  sufficiently 
decorated  to  please  a  mind  like  mine,  which  has 
always  remained  somewhat  childish  and  dreamy. 
There  are  things  hanging  on  the  wall  or  scattered 
over  the  tables  and  shelves  which  usually  please  my 
fancy  and  amuse  me.  But  to-day  it  would  seem  as 
if  all  those  objects  had  suddenly  conceived  some 
kind  of  ill-will  against  me.  They  have  all  become 
garish,  grimacing,  menacing.  That  statuette, 
modelled  after  one  of  the  Theological  Virtues  of 
Notre-Dame  de  Brou,  always  so  ingenuously  graceful 
in  its  natural  condition,  is  now  making  contortions 
and  putting  out  its  tongue  at  me.  And  that 
beautiful  miniature — in  which  one  of  the  most 
skilful  pupils  of  Jehan  Fouquet  depicted  himself, 
girdled  with  the  cord-girdle  of  the  Sons  of  St. 
Francis,  offering  his  book,  on  bended  knee,  to  the 
good  Due  d'Angoule'me — who  has  taken  it  out  of 
its  frame  and  put  in  its  place  a  great  ugly  cat's  head, 
which  stares  at  me  with  phosphorescent  eyes  ?  And 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  247 

the  designs  on  the  wall-paper  have  also  turned  into 
heads — hideous  green  heads.  .  .  .  But  no — I  am 
sure  that  wall-paper  must  have  foliage-designs  upon 
it  at  this  moment  just  as  it  had  twenty  years  ago, 
and  nothing  else.  .  .  .  But  no,  again — I  was  right 
before — they  are  heads,  with  eyes,  noses,  mouths — 
they  are  heads !  .  .  .  Ah  !  now  I  understand  ! 
they  are  both  heads  and  foliage-designs  at  the  same 
time.  I  wish  I  could  not  see  them  at  all. 

And  there,  on  my  right,  the  pretty  miniature  of 
the  Franciscan  has  come  back  again ;  but  it  seems 
to  me  as  if  I  can  only  keep  it  in  its  frame  by  a 
tremendous  effort  of  will,  and  that  the  moment  I 
get  tired  the  ugly  cat-head  will  appear  in  its  place. 
Certainly  I  am  not  delirious ;  I  can  see  Therese  very 
plainly,  standing  at  the  foot  of  my  bed  ;  I  can  hear 
her  speaking  to  me  perfectly  well,  and  I  should  be 
able  to  answer  her  quite  satisfactorily  if  I  were  not 
kept  so  busy  in  trying  to  compel  the  various  objects 
about  me  to  maintain  their  natural  aspect. 

Here  is  the  doctor  coming.  I  never  sent  for  him, 
but  it  gives  me  pleasure  to  see  him.  He  is  an  old 
neighbour  of  mine  ;  I  have  never  been  of  much 
service  to  him,  but  I  like  him  very  much.  Even  if  I 
do  not  say  much  to  him,  I  have  at  least  full  possession 
of  all  my  faculties,  and  I  even  find  myself  extra- 
ordinarily crafty  and  observant  to-day,  for  I  note 
all  his  gestures,  his  every  look,  the  least  wrinkling 


248  THE  CRIME  OF 

of  his  face.  But  the  doctor  is  very  cunning  too, 
and  I  cannot  really  tell  what  he  thinks  about  me. 
The  deep  thought  of  Goethe  suddenly  comes  to  my 
mind,  and  I  exclaim, 

"  Doctor,  the  old  man  has  consented  to  allow 
himself  to  become  sick;  but  he  does  not  intend, 
this  time  at  least,  to  make  any  further  concessions 


to  nature." 


Neither  the  doctor  nor  Therese  laugh  at  my 
little  joke.  1  suppose  they  cannot  have  under- 
stood it. 

The  doctor  goes  away  ;  evening  comes  ;  and  all 
sorts  of  strange  shadows  begin  to  shape  themselves 
about  my  bed-curtains,  forming  and  dissolving  by 
turns.  And  other  shadows — ghosts — throng  by 
before  me  ;  and  through  them  I  can  see  distinctly 
the  impassive  face  of  my  faithful  servant.  And 
suddenly  a  cry,  a  shrill  cry,  a  great  cry  of  dis- 
tress, rends  my  ears.  Was  it  you  who  called  me, 
Jeanne  ? 

The  day  is  over ;  and  the  shadows  take  their 
places  at  my  bedside  to  remain  with  me  all  through 
the  long  night. 

Then  morning  comes — I  feel  a  peace,  a  vast  peace, 
wrapping  me  all  about. 

Art  Thou  about  to  take  me  into  Thy  rest,  my 
dear  Lord  God  ? 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  249 

February  186-. 

THE  doctor  is  quite  jovial.  It  seems  that  I  am 
doing  him  a  great  deal  of  credit  by  being  able  to  get 
out  of  bed.  If  I  must  believe  him,  innumerable 
disorders  must  have  pounced  down  upon  my  poor 
old  body  all  at  the  same  time. 

These  disorders,  which  are  the  terror  of  ordinary 
mankind,  have  names  which  are  the  terror  of  philolo- 
gists. They  are  hybrid  names,  half  Greek,  half 
Latin,  with  terminations  in  "  itis,"  indicating  the 
inflammatory  condition,  and  in  "  algia,"  indicating 
pain.  The  doctor  gives  me  all  their  names,  together 
with  a  corresponding  number  of  adjectives  ending 
in  "  ic,"  which  serve  to  characterise  their  detestable 
qualities.  In  short,  they  represent  a  good  half  of 
that  most  perfect  copy  of  the  Dictionary  of  Medicine 
contained  in  the  too-authentic  box  of  Pandora. 

"  Doctor,  what  an  excellent  common-sense  story 
the  story  of  Pandora  is  ! — if  I  were  a  poet  I  would 
put  it  into  French  verse.  Shake  hands,  doctor  ! 
You  have  brought  me  back  to  life  ;  I  forgive  you 
for  it.  You  have  given  me  back  to  my  friends  ;  I 
thank  you  for  it.  You  say  I  am  quite  strong. 
That  may  be,  that  may  be  ;  but  I  have  lasted  a  very 
long  time.  I  am  a  very  old  article  of  furniture ;  I 
might  be  very  satisfactorily  compared  to  my 
father's  arm-chair.  It  was  an  arm-chair  which 


250  THE  CRIME  OF 

the  good  man  had  inherited,  and  in  which  he  used 
to  lounge  from  morning  until  evening.  Twenty 
times  a  day,  when  I  was  quite  a  baby,  I  used  to 
climb  up  and  seat  myself  on  one  of  the  arms  of  that 
old-fashioned  chair.  So  long  as  the  chair  remained 
intact,  nobody  paid  any  particular  attention  to  it. 
But  it  began  to  limp  on  one  foot ;  and  then  folks 
began  to  say  that  it  was  a  very  good  chair.  After- 
wards it  became  lame  in  three  legs,  squeaked  with 
the  fourth  leg,  and  lost  nearly  half  of  both  arms. 
Then  everybody  would  exclaim,  *  What  a  strong 
chair  ! '  They  wondered  how  it  was  that  after  its 
arms  had  been  worn  off  and  all  its  legs  knocked  out  of 
perpendicular,  it  could  yet  preserve  the  recognisable 
shape  of  a  chair,  remain  nearly  erect,  and  still  be  of 
some  service.  The  horse-hair  came  out  of  its  body 
at  last,  and  it  gave  up  the  ghost.  And  when 
Cyprien,  our  servant,  sawed  up  its  mutilated 
members  for  fire-wood,  everybody  redoubled  their 
cries  of  admiration.  *  Oh  !  what  an  excellent — 
what  a  marvellous  chair !  It  was  the  chair  of 
Pierre  Sylvestre  Bonnard,  the  cloth  merchant — 
of  Epimenide  Bonnard,  his  son — of  Jean-Baptiste 
Bonnard,  the  Pyrrhonian  philosopher  and  Chief  of 
the  Third  Maritime  Division.  Oh  !  what  a  robust 
and  venerable  chair ! '  In  reality  it  was  a  dead 
chair.  Well,  doctor,  I  am  that  chair.  You  think  I 
am  solid  because  I  have  been  able  to  resist  an  attack 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  251 

which  would  have  killed  many  people,  and  which 
only  three-fourths  killed  me.  Much  obliged  !  I 
feel  none  the  less  that  I  am  something  which  has 
been  irremediably  damaged." 

The  doctor  tries  to  prove  to  me,  with  the  help  of 
enormous  Greek  and  Latin  words,  that  I  am  really 
in  a  very  good  condition.  It  would,  of  course,  be 
useless  to  attempt  any  demonstration  of  this  kind  in 
so  lucid  a  language  as  French.  However,  I  allow 
him  to  persuade  me  at  last  ;  and  I  see  him  to  the 
door. 

"  Good  !  good  !  "  exclaimed  Therese  ;  "  that  is 
the  way  to  put  the  doctor  out  of  the  house  !  Just 
do  the  same  thing  once  or  twice  again,  and  he  will 
not  come  to  see  you  any  more — and  so  much  the 
better  ?  " 

"  Well,  Therese,  now  that  I  have  become  such  a 
hearty  man  again,  do  not  refuse  to  give  me  my 
letters.  I  am  sure  there  must  be  quite  a  big  bundle 
of  letters,  and  it  would  be  very  wicked  to  keep  me 
any  longer  from  reading  them." 

Therese,  after  some  little  grumbling,  gave  me  my 
letters.  But  what  did  it  matter  ? — I  looked  at  all 
the  envelopes,  and  saw  that  no  one  of  them  had  been 
addressed  by  the  little  hand  which  I  so  much  wish  I 
could  see  here  now,  turning  over  the  pages  of  the 
Vecellio.  I  pushed  the  whole  bundle  of  letters 
away :  they  had  no  more  interest  for  me. 


252  THE  CRIME  OF 

April-June. 

IT  was  a  hotly  contested  engagement. 

"  Wait,  Monsieur,  until  I  have  put  on  my  clean 
things,"  exclaimed  Therese,  "  and  I  will  go  out  with 
you  this  time  also  ;  I  will  carry  your  folding-stool 
as  I  have*  been  doing  these  last  few  days,  and  we 
will  go  and  sit  down  somewhere  in  the  sun." 

Therese  actually  thinks  me  infirm.  I  have  been 
sick,  it  is  true,  but  there  is  an  end  to  all  things  ! 
Madame  Malady  has  taken  her  departure  quite 
awhile  ago,  and  it  is  now  more  than  three  months 
since  her  pale  and  gracious-visaged  handmaid, 
Dame  Convalescence,  politely  bade  me  farewell.  If 
I  were  to  listen  to  my  housekeeper,  I  should  become 
a  veritable  Monsieur  Arganty  and  I  should  wear  a 
nightcap  with  ribbons  for  the  rest  of  my  life.  .  .  . 
No  more  of  this  ! — I  propose  to  go  out  by  myself ! 
Therese  will  not  hear  of  it.  She  takes  my  fold- 
ing-stool, and  wants  to  follow  me. 

"  Therese,  to-morrow,  if  you  like,  we  will  take 
our  seats  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  wall  of  La  Petite 
Provence  and  stay  there  just  as  long  as  you  please. 
But  to-day  I  have  some  very  important  affairs  to 
attend  to." 

"  So  much  the  better  !  But  your  affairs  are  not 
the  only  affairs  in  this  world." 

I  beg,  I  scold  ;  I  make  my  escape. 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  253 

It  is  quite  a  pleasant  day.  With  the  aid  of  a  cab, 
and  the  help  of  God,  I  trust  to  be  able  to  fulfil  my 
purpose. 

There  is  the  wall  on  which  is  painted  in  great  blue 
letters  the  words  "  Pensionnat  de  Demoiselles  tenu  'par 
Mademoiselle  Virginie  Prefere"  There  is  the  iron 
gate  which  would  give  free  entrance  into  the  court- 
yard if  it  were  ever  opened.  But  the  lock  is  rusty, 
and  sheets  of  zinc  put  up  behind  the  bars  protect 
from  indiscreet  observation  those  dear  little  souls 
to  whom  Mademoiselle  Prefere  doubtless  teaches 
modesty,  sincerity,  justice,  and  disinterestedness. 
There  is  a  window,  with  iron  bars  before  it,  and 
panes  daubed  over  with  white  paint — the  window 
of  the  domestic  offices,  like  a  glazed  eye — the  only 
aperture  of  the  building  opening  upon  the  exterior 
world.  As  for  the  house-door,  through  which  I 
entered  so  often,  but  which  is  now  closed  against 
me  for  ever,  it  is  just  as  I  saw  it  the  last  time,  with 
its  little  iron-grated  wicket.  The  single  stone  step 
in  front  of  it  is  deeply  worn,  and,  without  having 
very  good  eyes  behind  my  spectacles,  I  can  see  the 
little  white  scratches  on  the  stone  which  have  been 
made  by  the  nails  in  the  shoes  of  the  girls  going  in 
and  out.  And  why  cannot  I  also  go  in  ?  I  have 
a  feeling  that  Jeanne  must  be  suffering  a  great  deal 
in  this  dismal  house,  and  that  she  calls  my  name 
in  secret.  I  cannot  go  away  from  the  gate  !  A 


254  THE  CRIME  OF 

strange  anxiety  takes  hold  of  me.  I  pull  the  bell. 
The  scared-looking  servant  comes  to  the  door,  even 
much  more  scared-looking  than  when  I  saw  her  the 
last  time.  Strict  orders  have  been  given  ;  I  am  not 
to  be  allowed  to  see  Mademoiselle  Jeanne.  I  beg 
the  servant  to  be  so  kind  as  to  tell  me  how  the  child 
is.  The  servant,  after  looking  to  her  right  and  then 
to  her  left,  tells  me  that  Mademoiselle  Jeanne  is 
well,  and  then  shuts  the  door  in  my  face.  And  I 
am  all  alone  in  the  street  again. 

How  many  times  since  then  have  I  wandered  in 
the  same  way  under  that  wall,  and  passed  before 
the  little  door, — full  of  shame  and  despair  to  find 
myself  even  weaker  than  that  poor  child,  who  has 
no  other  help  or  friend  except  myself  in  the 
world  ! 

Finally  I  overcame  my  repugnance  sufficiently 
to  call  upon  Maitre  Mouche.  The  first  thing  I 
remarked  was  that  his  office  is  much  more  dusty 
and  much  more  mouldy  this  year  than  it  was  last 
year.  The  notary  made  his  appearance  after  a 
moment,  with  his  familiar  stiff  gestures,  and  his 
restless  eyes  quivering  behind  his  eye-glasses.  I 
made  my  complaints  to  him.  He  answered  me.  .  .  . 
But  why  should  I  write  down,  even  in  a  note- 
book which  I  am  going  to  burn,  my  recollections 
of  a  downright  scoundrel  ?  He  takes  sides  with 
Mademoiselle  Prefere,  whose  intelligent  mind  and 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  255 

irreproachable  character  he  has  long  appreciated. 
He  does  not  feel  himself  in  a  position  to  decide  the 
nature  of  the  question  at  issue  ;  but  he  must  assure 
me  that  appearances  have  been  greatly  against  me. 
That  of  course  makes  no  difference  to  me.  He 
adds — (and  this  does  make  some  difference  to  me) — 
that  the  small  sum  which  had  been  placed  in  his 
hands  to  defray  the  expenses  of  the  education  of  his 
ward  has  been  expended,  and  that,  in  view  of  the 
circumstances,  he  cannot  but  greatly  admire  the 
disinterestedness  of  Mademoiselle  Prefere  in  con- 
senting to  allow  Mademoiselle  Jeanne  to  remain 
with  her. 

A  magnificent  light,  the  light  of  a  perfect  day, 
floods  the  sordid  place  with  its  incorruptible  torrent, 
and  illuminates  the  person  of  that  man  ! 

And  outside  it  pours  down  its  splendour  upon  all 
the  wretchedness  of  a  populous  quarter. 

How  sweet  it  is, — this  light  with  which  my 
eyes  have  so  long  been  filled,  and  which  ere  long  I 
must  for  ever  cease  to  enjoy !  I  wander  out  with 
my  hands  behind  me,  dreaming  as  I  go,  following  the 
line  of  the  fortifications  ;  and  I  find  myself  after 
awhile,  I  know  not  how,  in  an  out-of-the-way 
suburb  full  of  miserable  little  gardens.  By  the 
dusty  roadside  I  observe  a  plant  whose  flower,  at 
once  dark  and  splendid,  seems  worthy  of  association 
with  the  noblest  and  purest  mourning  for  the  dead. 


256  THE  CRIME  OF 

It  is  a  columbine.  Our  fathers  called  it  "  Out 
Lady's  Glove " — le  gant  de  Notre-Dame.  Only 
such  a  "  Notre-Dame  "  as  might  make  herself  very, 
very  small,  for  the  sake  of  appearing  to  little  children 
could  ever  slip  her  dainty  fingers  into  the  narrow 
capsule  of  that  flower. 

And  there  is  a  big  bumble-bee  who  tries  to  force 
himself  into  the  flower,  brutally ;  but  his  mouth 
cannot  reach  the  nectar,  and  the  poor  glutton 
strives  and  strives  in  vain.  He  has  to  give  up  the 
attempt,  and  comes  out  of  the  flower  all  smeared 
over  with  pollen.  He  flies  off  in  his  own  heavy 
lumbering  way  ;  but  there  are  not  many  flowers  in 
this  portion  of  the  suburbs,  which  has  been  defiled 
by  the  soot  and  smoke  of  factories.  So  he  comes 
back  to  the  columbine  again,  and  this  time  he 
pierces  the  corolla  and  sucks  the  honey  through  the 
little  hole  which  he  has  made  ;  I  should  never  have 
thought  that  a  bumble-bee  had  so  much  sense  ! 
Why,  that  is  admirable  !  The  more  I  observe  them, 
the  more  do  insects  and  flowers  fill  me  with  aston- 
ishment. I  am  like  that  good  Rollin  who  went  wild 
with  delight  over  the  flowers  of  his  peach-trees.  I 
wish  I  could  have  a  fine  garden,  and  live  at  the  verge 
of  a  wood. 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD          257 

August,  September. 

IT  occurred  to  me  one  Sunday  morning  to  watch 
for  the  moment  when  Mademoiselle  Prefere's  pupils 
were  leaving  the  school  in  procession  to  attend  Mass 
at  the  parish  church.  I  watched  them  passing  two 
by  two, — the  little  ones  first  with  very  serious  faces. 
There  were  three  of  them  all  dressed  exactly  alike — 
dumpy,  plump,  important-looking  little  creatures, 
whom  I  recognised  at  once  as  the  Mouton  girls. 
Their  elder  sister  is  the  artist  who  drew  that  terrible 
head  of  Tatius,  King  of  the  Sabines.  Beside  the 
column,  the  assistant  school-teacher,  with  her 
prayer-book  in  her  hand,  was  gesturing  and  frowning; 
Then  came  the  next  oldest  class,  and  finally  the  big 
girls,  all  whispering  to  each  other,  as  they  went  by. 
But  I  did  not  see  Jeanne. 

I  went  to  police-headquarters  and  inquired 
whether  they  chanced  to  have,  filed  away  somewhere 
or  other,  any  information  regarding  the  establishment 
in  the  Rue  Demours.  I  succeeded  in  inducing 
them  to  send  some  female  inspectors  there.  These 
returned  bringing  with  them  the  most  favourable 
reports  about  the  establishment.  In  their  opinion 
the  Prefere  School  was  a  model  school.  It  is  evident 
that  if  I  were  to  force  an  investigation,  Mademoiselle 
Prefere  would  receive  academic  honours. 


258  THE  CRIME  OF 

October  3. 

THIS  Thursday  being  a  school-holiday  I  had  the 
chance  of  meeting  the  three  little  Mouton  girls  in 
the  vicinity  of  the  Rue  Demours.  After  bowing  to 
their  mother,  I  asked  the  eldest,  who  appears  to 
be  about  ten  years  old,  how  was  her  playmate, 
Mademoiselle  Jeanne  Alexandra. 

The  little  Mouton  girl  answered  me,  all  in  a 
breath, 

"  Jeanne  Alexandra  is  not  my  playmate.  She  is 
only  kept  in  the  school  for  charity — so  they  make  her 
sweep  the  class-rooms.  It  was  Mademoiselle  who 
said  so.  And  Jeanne  Alexandre  is  a  bad  girl;  so 
they  lock  her  up  in  the  dark  room — and  it  serves  her 
right — and  I  am  a  good  girl — and  I  am  never  locked 
up  in  the  dark  room." 

The  three  little  girls  resumed  their  walk,  and 
Madame  Mouton  followed  close  behind  them, 
looking  back  over  her  broad  shoulder  at  me,  in  a 
very  suspicious  manner. 

Alas !  I  find  myself  reduced  to  expedients  of  a 
questionable  character.  Madame  de  Gabry  will  not 
come  back  to  Paris  for  at  least  three  months  more, 
at  the  very  soonest.  Without  her,  I  have  no  tact, 
I  have  no  common  sense — I  am  nothing  but  a 
cumbersome,  clumsy,  mischief-making  machine. 

Nevertheless,  I  cannot  possibly  permit  them  to 
make  Jeanne  a  boarding-school  servant ! 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  259 

December  28. 

THE  idea  that  Jeanne  was  obliged  to  sweep  the 
rooms  had  become  absolutely  unbearable. 

The  weather  was  dark  and  cold.  Night  had 
already  begun.  I  rang  the  school-door  bell  with 
the  tranquillity  of  a  resolute  man.  The  mo- 
ment that  the  timid  servant  opened  the  door,  I 
slipped  a  gold  piece  into  her  hand,  and  promised 
her  another  if  she  would  arrange  matters  so  that  I 
could  see  Mademoiselle  Alexandre.  Her  answer 
was, 

"  In  one  hour  from  now,  at  the  grated  window." 

And  she  slammed  the  door  in  my  face  so  rudely 
that  she  knocked  my  hat  into  the  gutter.  I  waited 
for  one  very  long  hour  in  a  violent  snow-storm ; 
then  I  approached  the  window.  Nothing  !  The 
wind  raged,  and  the  snow  fell  heavily.  Workmen 
passing  by  with  their  implements  on  their  shoulders, 
and  their  heads  bent  down  to  keep  the  snow  from 
coming  in  their  faces,  rudely  jostled  me.  Still 
nothing.  I  began  to  fear  I  had  been  observed.  I 
knew  that  I  had  done  wrong  in  bribing  a  servant, 
but  I  was  not  a  bit  sorry  for  it.  Woe  to  the  man 
who  does  not  know  how  to  break  through  social 
regulations  in  case  of  necessity  !  Another  quarter 
of  an  hour  passed.  Nothing.  At  last  the  window 
was  partly  opened. 

"  Is  that  you,  Monsieur  Bonnard  ?  " 


260  THE  CRIME  OF 

"  Is  that  you,  Jeanne  ? — tell  me  at  once  what  has 
become  of  you." 

"  I  am  well — very  well." 

"  But  what  else  !  " 

"  They  have  put  me  in  the  kitchen,  and  I  have 
to  sweep  the  school-rooms." 

"  In  the  kitchen  !  Sweeping — you  !  Gracious 
goodness  !  " 

"  Yes,  because  my  guardian  does  not  pay  for  my 
schooling  any  longer." 

"  Gracious  goodness !  Your  guardian  seems  to 
me  to  be  a  thorough  scoundrel." 

"  Then  you  know " 

"  What  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  don't  ask  me  to  tell  you  that ! — but  I 
would  rather  die  than  find  myself  alone  with  him 
again." 

"  And  why  did  you  not  write  to  me  ?  " 

"  I  was  watched." 

At  that  instant  I  formed  a  resolve  which  nothing 
in  this  world  could  have  induced  me  to  change.  I 
did,  indeed,  have  some  idea  that  I  might  be  acting 
contrary  to  law  ;  but  I  did  not  give  myself  the  least 
concern  about  that  idea.  And,  being  firmly  re- 
solved, I  was  able  to  be  prudent.  I  acted  with 
remarkable  coolness. 

"  Jeanne,"  I  asked,  "  tell  me  !  does  that  room 
you  are  in  open  into  the  court-yard  ?  " 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  261 

"  Yes." 

"  Can  you  open  the  street-door  from  the  inside 
yourself  ?  " 

"  Yes, — if  there  is  nobody  in  the  porter's 
lodge." 

"  Go  and  see  if  there  is  any  one  there,  and  be 
careful  that  nobody  observes  you." 

Then  I  waited,  keeping  a  watch  on  the  door  and 
window. 

In  six  or  seven  seconds  Jeanne  reappeared  behind 
the  bars,  and  said, 

"  The  servant  is  in  the  porter's  lodge." 

"  Very  well,"  I  said,  "  have  you  a  pen  and  ink  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  A  pencil  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Pass  it  out  here." 

I  took  an  old  newspaper  out  of  my  pocket,  and — 
in  a  wind  which  blew  almost  hard  enough  to  put  the 
street-lamps  out,  in  a  downpour  of  snow  which 
almost  blinded  me — I  managed  to  wrap  up  and 
address  that  paper  to  Mademoiselle  Prefere. 

While  I  was  writing  I  asked  Jeanne, 

"  When  the  postman  passes  he  puts  the  papers 
and  letters  in  the  box,  doesn't  he  ?  He  rings  the 
bell  and  goes  away  ?  Then  the  servant  opens  the 
letter-box  and  takes  whatever  she  finds  there  to 
Mademoiselle  Prefere  immediately ;  is  not  that 


262  THE  CRIME  OF 

about  the  way  the  thing  is  managed  whenever  any- 
thing comes  by  post  ?  " 

Jeanne  thought  it  was. 

"  Then  we  shall  soon  see.  Jeanne,  go  and  watch 
again ;  and,  as  soon  as  the  servant  leaves  the  lodge, 
open  the  door  and  come  out  here  to  me." 

Having  said  this,  I  put  my  newspaper  in  the  box, 
gave  the  bell  a  tremendous  pull,  and  then  hid  myself 
in  the  embrasure  of  a  neighbouring  door. 

I  might  have  been  there  several  minutes,  when 
the  little  door  quivered,  then  opened,  and  a  young 
girl's  head  made  its  appearance  through  the  opening. 
I  took  hold  of  it ;  I  pulled  it  towards  me. 

"  Come,  Jeanne  !    come  !  " 

She  stared  at  me  uneasily.  Certainly  she  must 
have  been  afraid  that  I  had  gone  mad  ;  but,  on  the 
contrary,  I  was  very  rational  indeed. 

"  Come,  my  child  !    come  !  " 

"  Where  ?  " 

"  To  Madame  de  Gabry's." 

Then  she  took  my  arm.  For  some  time  we  ran 
like  a  couple  of  thieves.  But  running  is  an  exercise 
ill-suited  to  one  as  corpulent  as  I  am,  and,  finding 
myself  out  of  breath  at  last,  I  stopped  and  leaned 
upon  something  which  turned  out  to  be  the  stove 
ot  a  dealer  in  roasted  chestnuts,  who  was  doing 
business  at  the  corner  of  a  wine-seller's  shop,  where 
a  number  of  cabmen  were  drinking.  One  of  them 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  263 

asked  us  if  we  did  not  want  a  cab.  Most  assuredly 
we  wanted  a  cab  !  The  driver,  after  setting  down 
his  glass  on  the  zinc  counter,  climbed  upon  his 
seat  and  urged  his  horse  forward.  We  were  saved. 

"  Phew  !  "  I  panted,  wiping  my  forehead.  For, 
in  spite  of  the  cold,  I  was  perspiring  profusely. 

What  seemed  very  odd  was  that  Jeanne  appeared 
to  be  much  more  conscious  than  I  was  of  the 
enormity  which  we  had  committed.  She  looked 
very  serious  indeed,  and  was  visibly  uneasy. 

"  In  the  kitchen  !  "  I  cried  out,  with  indignation. 

She  shook  her  head,  as  if  to  say,  "  Well,  there  or 
anywhere  else,  what  does  it  matter  to  me  ?  "  And, 
by  the  light  of  the  street-lamps,  I  observed  with  pain 
that  her  face  was  very  thin  and  her  features  all 
pinched.  I  did  not  find  in  her  any  of  that  vivacity, 
any  of  those  bright  impulses,  any  of  that  quickness  of 
expression,  which  used  to  please  me  so  much.  Her 
gaze  had  become  timid,  her  gestures  constrained, 
her  whole  attitude  melancholy.  I  took  her  hand — 
a  little  cold  hand,  which  had  become  all  hardened 
and  bruised.  The  poor  child  must  have  suffered 
very  much.  I  questioned  her.  She  told  me  very 
quietly  that  Mademoiselle  Prefere  had  summoned 
her  one  day,  and  called  her  a  little  monster  and  a 
little  viper,  for  some  reason  which  she  had  never 
been  able  to  learn. 

She  had   added,   "  You   shall  not   see   Monsieur 


264  THE  CRIME  OF 

Bonnard  any  more  ;  for  he  has  been  giving  you  bad 
advice,  and  he  has  conducted  himself  in  a  most 
shameful  manner  towards  me."  "  I  then  said  to 
her,  *  That,  Mademoiselle,  you  will  never  be  able 
to  make  me  believe.'  Then  MademoiseDe  slapped 
my  face  and  sent  me  back  to  the  school-room. 
The  announcement  that  I  should  never  be  allowed 
to  see  you  again  made  me  feel  as  if  night  had  come 
down  upon  me.  Don't  you  know  those  evenings 
when  one  feels  so  sad  to  see  the  darkness  come  ? — 
well,  just  imagine  such  a  moment  stretched  out  into 
weeks — into  whole  months  !  Don't  you  remember 
my  little  Saint-George  ?  Up  to  that  time  I  had 
worked  at  it  as  well  as  I  could — just  simply  to  work 
at  it — just  to  amuse  myself.  But  when  I  lost  all 
hope  of  ever  seeing  you  again  I  took  my  little  wax 
figure,  and  I  began  to  work  at  it  in  quite  another 
way.  I  did  not  try  to  model  it  with  wooden  matches 
any  more,  as  I  had  been  doing,  but  with  hair-pins. 
I  even  made  use  of  e-pingles  a  la  neige.  But  perhaps 
you  do  not  know  what  epingles  a  la  neigc  are  ?  Well, 
I  became  more  particular  about  it  than  you  can 
possibly  imagine.  I  put  a  dragon  on  Saint-George's 
helmet ;  and  I  passed  hours  and  hours  in  making 
a  head  and  eyes  and  a  tail  for  the  dragon.  Oh, 
the  eyes  !  the  eyes,  above  all  !  I  never  stopped 
working  at  them  till  I  got  them  so  that  they  had  red 
pupils  and  white  eye-lids  and  eye-browi  and  every- 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  265 

thing  !  I  know  I  am  very  silly  ;  I  had  an  idea  that 
I  was  going  to  die  as  soon  as  my  little  Saint-George 
would  be  finished.  I  worked  at  it  during  recreation- 
hours,  and  Mademoiselle  Prefere  used  to  let  me 
alone.  One  day  I  learned  that  you  were  in  the 
parlour  with  the  schoolmistress  ;  I  watched  for 
you  ;  we  said  Au  revoir  !  that  day  to  each  other. 
I  was  a  little  consoled  by  seeing  you.  But,  some 
time  after  that,  my  guardian  came  and  wanted  to 
make  me  go  out  with  him  one  Thursday.  I  refused 
to  go  to  his  house, — but  please  don't  ask  me  why, 
Monsieur.  He  answered  me,  quite  gently,  that  I 
was  a  very  whimsical  little  girl.  And  then  he  left 
me  alone.  But  the  next  day  Mademoiselle  Prefere 
came  to  me  with  such  a  wicked  look  on  her  face  that 
I  was  really  afraid.  She  had  a  letter  in  her  hand. 
*  Mademoiselle,'  she  said  to  me,  *  I  am  informed  by 
your  guardian  that  he  has  spent  all  the  money 
which  belonged  to  you.  Don't  be  afraid  !  I  do 
not  intend  to  abandon  you  ;  but,  you  must  acknow- 
ledge yourself,  it  is  only  right  that  you  should  earn 
your  own  livelihood.'  Then  she  put  me  to  work 
house-cleaning  ;  and  whenever  I  made  a  mistake 
she  would  lock  me  up  in  the  garret  for  days  together 
And  that  is  what  has  happened  to  me  since  I  saw  you 
last.  Even  if  I  had  been  able  to  write  to  you 
I  do  not  know  whether  I  should  have  done  it, 
because  I  did  not  think  you  could  possibly  take  me 


266  THE  CRIME 

away  from  the  school ;  and,  as  Maitre  Mouche 
did  not  come  back  to  see  me,  there  was  no  hurry. 
I  thought  I  could  wait  for  awhile  in  the  garret  and 
the  kitchen." 

"  Jeanne,"  I  cried,  "  even  if  we  should  have  to  flee 
to  Oceania,  the  abominable  Prefere  shall  never  get 
hold  of  you  again.  I  will  take  a  great  oath  on  that  ! 
And  why  should  we  not  go  to  Oceania  ?  The 
climate  is  very  healthy  ;  and  I  read  in  a  newspaper 
the  other  day  that  they  have  pianos  there.  But, 
in  the  meantime,  let  us  go  to  the  house  of  Madame 
de  Gabry,  who  returned  to  Paris,  as  luck  would  have 
it,  some  three  or  four  days  ago  ;  for  you  and  I  are 
two  innocent  fools,  and  we  have  great  need  of  some 
one  to  help  us." 

Even  as  I  was  speaking  Jeanne's  features  suddenly 
became  pale,  and  seemed  to  shrink  into  lifelessness ; 
her  eyes  became  all  dim  ;  her  lips,  half  open,  con- 
tracted with  an  expression  of  pain.  Then  her  head 
sank  sideways  on  her  shoulder  ; — she  had  fainted. 

I  lifted  her  in  my  arms,  and  carried  her  up  Madame 
de  Gabry's  staircase  like  a  little  baby  asleep.  But  I 
was  myself  on  the  point  of  fainting,  from  emotional 
excitement  and  fatigue  together,  when  she  came  to 
herself  again. 

"  Ah  !  it  is  you,"  she  said  :  "  so  much  the  better !  " 

Such  was  our  condition  when  we  rang  our  friend'i 
door-bell. 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  267 

Same  day. 

IT  was  eight  o'clock.  Madame  de  Gabiy,  as 
might  be  supposed,  was  very  much  surprised  by 
our  unexpected  appearance.  But  she  welcomed 
the  old  man  and  the  child  with  that  glad  kindness 
which  always  expresses  itself  in  her  beautiful 
gestures.  It  seems  to  me, — if  I  might  use  that 
language  of  devotion  so  familiar  to  her, — it  seems 
to  me  as  though  some  heavenly  grace  streams  from 
her  hands  whenever  she  opens  them  ;  and  even  the 
perfume  which  impregnates  her  robes  seems  to  in- 
spire the  sweet  calm  zeal  of  charity  and  good  works. 
Surprised  she  certainly  was ;  but  she  asked  us  no 
questions, — and  that  silence  seemed  to  me  admirable. 

"  Madame,"  I  said  to  her,  "  we  have  both  come 
to  place  ourselves  under  your  protection.  And, 
first  of  all,  we  are  going  to  ask  you  to  give  us  some 
supper— or  to  give  Jeanne  some,  at  least ;  for  a 
moment  ago,  in  the  carriage,  she  fainted  from  weak- 
ness. As  for  myself,  I  could  not  eat  a  bite  at  this 
late  hour  without  passing  a  night  of  agony  in  con- 
sequence. I  hope  that  Monsieur  de  Gabry  is  well." 

"  Oh,  he  is  here  !  "  she  said. 

And  she  called  him  immediately. 

"  Come  in  here,  Paul  !  Come  and  see  Monsieur 
Bonnard  and  Mademoiselle  Alexandre." 

He  came.     It  was  a  pleasure  for  me  to  see  his. 


268  THE  CRIME  OF 

frank  broad  face,  and  to  press  his  strong  square 
hand.  Then  we  went,  all  four  of  us,  into  the 
dining-room  ;  and  while  some  cold  meat  was  being 
cut  for  Jeanne — which  she  never  touched  notwith- 
standing— I  related  our  adventure.  Paul  de  Gabry 
asked  me  permission  to  smoke  his  pipe,  after  which 
he  listened  to  me  in  silence.  When  I  had  finished 
my  recital  he  scratched  the  short,  stiff  beard  upon 
his  chin,  and  uttered  a  tremendous  "  Sacrebleu  !  " 
But,  seeing  Jeanne  stare  at  each  of  us  in  turn,  with 
a  frightened  look  in  her  face,  he  added  : 

"  We  will  talk  about  this  matter  to-morrow 
morning.  Come  into  my  study  for  a  moment  ;  I 
have  an  old  book  to  show  you  that  I  want  you  to 
tell  me  something  about." 

I  followed  him  into  his  study,  where  the  steel 
of  guns  and  hunting-knives,  suspended  against  the 
dark  hangings,  glimmered  in  the  lamp-light.  There, 
pulling  me  down  beside  him  upon  a  leather-covered 
sofa,  he  exclaimed, 

"  What  have  you  done  ?  Great  God  !  Do  you 
know  what  you  have  done  ?  Corruption  of  a  minor, 
abduction,  kidnapping !  You  have  got  yourself 
into  a  nice  mess  !  You  have  simply  rendered  your- 
lelf  liable  to  a  sentence  of  imprisonment  of  not  less 
than  five  nor  more  than  ten  years." 

"  Mercy  on  us !  "  I  cried  ;  "  ten  years  imprison- 
ment for  having  saved  an  innocent  child." 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  269 

"  That  is  the  law ! "  answered  Monsieur  de 
Gabry.  "  You  see,  my  dear  Monsieui  Bonnard,  I 
happen  to  know  the  Code  pretty  well — not  because 
I  ever  studied  law  as  a  profession,  but  because,  as 
mayor  of  Lusance,  I  was  obliged  to  teach  myself 
something  about  it  in  order  to  be  able  to  give 
information  to  my  subordinates.  Mouche  is  a 
rascal ;  that  woman  Prefere  is  a  vile  hussy ;  and 
you  are  a  ...  Well !  I  really  cannot  find  any  word 
strong  enough  to  signify  what  you  are  !  " 

After  opening  his  bookcase,  where  dog-collars* 
riding-whips,  stirrups,  spurs,  cigar-boxes,  and  a  few 
books  of  reference  were  indiscriminately  stowed 
away,  he  took  out  of  it  a  copy  of  the  Code,  and 
began  to  turn  over  the  leaves. 

"  '  CRIMES  AND  MISDEMEANOURS  '  .  .  .  *  SEQUES- 
TRATION OF  PERSONS  ' — that  is  not  your  case.  .  .  . 
'  ABDUCTION  OF  MINORS  ' — here  we  are.  .  .  . 
1  ARTICLE  354  : — Whosoever  shall,  either  by  fraud  or 
violence,  have  abducted  or  have  caused  to  be  abducted 
any  minor  or  minors,  or  shall  have  enticed  them,  or 
turned  them  away  from,  or  forcibly  removed  them,  or 
shall  have  caused  them  to  be  enticed,  or  turned  away 
from  or  forcibly  removed  from  the  places  in  which 
they  have  been  'placed  by  those  to  whose  authority 
or  direction  they  have  been  submitted  or  confided,  shall 
be  liable  to  the  penalty  of  imprisonment.  See  PENAL 
CODE,  21  and  28.'  Here  is  21  : — *  The  term  of 


270  THE  CRIME  OF 

imprisonment  shall  not  be  less  than  -five  years.9  28. 
The  sentence  of  imprisonment  shall  be  considered  a) 
involving  a  loss  of  civil  rights?  Now  all  that  is  very 
plain,  is  it  not,  Monsieur  Bonnard  ?  " 

"  Perfectly  plain." 

"  Now  let  us  go  on  :  '  ARTICLE  356  : — In  case  the 
abductor  be  under  the  age  of  21  years  at  the  time  of 
the  offence,  he  shall  only  be  punished  with  * ...  But 
we  certainly  cannot  invoke  this  article  in  your 
favour.  '  ARTICLE  357  : — In  case  the  abductor  shall 
have  married  the  girl  by  him  abducted,  he  can  only  be 
prosecuted  at  the  instance  of  such  -persons  as,  according 
to  the  Civil  Code,  may  have  the  right  to  demand  that 
the  marriage  shall  be  declared  null ;  nor  can  he  be 
condemned  until  after  the  nullity  of  the  marriage  shall 
have  been  pronounced?  I  do  not  know  whether  it  is 
a  part  of  your  plans  to  marry  Mademoiselle  Alex- 
andre  !  You  can  see  that  the  Code  is  good-natured 
about  it ;  it  leaves  you  one  door  of  escape.  But  no 
— I  ought  not  to  joke  with  you,  because  really  you 
have  put  yourself  in  a  very  unfortunate  position  ! 
And  how  could  a  man  like  you  imagine  that  here  in 
Paris,  in  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century,  a 
young  girl  can  be  abducted  with  absolute  impunity  ? 
We  are  not  living  in  the  Middle  Ages  now  ;  and 
such  things  are  no  longer  permitted  by  law." 

"  You  need  not  imagine,"  I  replied,  "  that 
abduction  was  lawful  under  the  ancient  Code.  You 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  271 

will  find  in  Baluze  a  decree  issued  by  King  Childe- 
bert  at  Cologne,  either  in  593  or  594,  on  the  subject  : 
moreover,  everybody  knows  that  the  famous  Ordon- 
nance  de  Blois,  of  May  1579,  formally  enacted  that 
any  persons  convicted  of  having  suborned  any  son 
or  daughter  under  the  age  of  twenty-five  years 
whether  under  promise  of  marriage  or  otherwise, 
without  the  full  knowledge,  will,  or  consent  of 
the  father,  mother,  and  guardians,  should  be 
punished  with  death  ;  and  the  ordinance  adds  : 
*  Et  •pareillement  seront  punis  extraordinairement 
tous  ceux  qui  auront  participe  audit  rapt,  et  qui 
auront  prete  conseil,  confort,  et  aide  en  aucune  maniere 
que  ce  soit.'  (And  in  like  manner  shall  be  extra- 
ordinarily punished  all  persons  whomsoever,  who 
shall  have  participated  in  the  said  abduction,  and 
who  shall  have  given  thereunto  counsel,  succour,  or 
aid  in  any  manner  whatsoever.)  Those  are  the 
exact,  or  very  nearly  the  exact,  terms  of  the  ordi- 
nance. As  for  that  article  of  the  Code-Napoleon 
which  you  have  just  told  me  of,  and  which  excepts 
from  liability  to  prosecution  the  abductor  who 
marries  the  young  girl  abducted  by  him,  it  reminds 
me  that  according  to  the  laws  of  Bretagne,  forcible 
abduction,  followed  by  marriage,  was  not  punished. 
But  this  usage,  which  involved  various  abuses 
was  suppressed  in  1720 — at  least  I  give  you  the  date 
within  ten  years.  My  memory  is  not  very  good 


272  THE  CRIME  OF 

now,  and  the  time  is  long  passed  when  I  could 
repeat  by  heart  without  even  stopping  to  take 
breath,  fifteen  hundred  verses  of  Girart  de 
Roussillon. 

"  As  far  as  regards  the  Capitulary  of  Charlemagne, 
which  fixes  the  compensation  for  abduction,  I  have 
not  mentioned  it  because  I  am  sure  that  you  must 
remember  it.  So,  my  dear  Monsieur  de  Gabry, 
you  see  abduction  was  considered  as  a  decidedly 
punishable  offence  under  the  three  dynasties  of 
Old  France.  It  is  a  very  great  mistake  to  suppose 
that  the  Middle  Ages  represent  a  period  of  social 
chaos.  You  must  remember,  on  the  contrary " 

Monsieur  de  Gabry  here  interrupted  me  : 

"  So,"  he  exclaimed,  "  you  know  the  Ordonnance 
de  Blois,  you  know  Baluze,  you  know  Childebert, 
you  know  the  Capitularies — and  you  don't  know 
anything  about  the  Code-Napoleon  !  " 

I  replied  that,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  never  had 
read  the  Code  ;  and  he  looked  very  much  surprised. 

"  And  now  do  you  understand,"  he  asked,  "  the 
extreme  gravity  of  the  action  you  have  committed  ?  " 

I  had  not  indeed  been  yet  able  to  understand  it 
fully.  But  little  by  little,  with  the  aid  of  Monsieur 
Paul's  very  sensible  explanations,  I  reached  the 
conviction  at  last  that  I  should  not  be  judged  in 
regard  to  my  motives,  which  were  innocent,  but 
only  according  to  my  action,  which  was  punishable. 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  273 

Thereupon  I  began  to  feel  very  despondent,  and  to 
utter  divers  lamentations. 

"  What  am  I  to  do  ?"  I  cried  out,  "  what  am  I  to 
do  ?  Am  I  then  irretrievably  ruined  ? — and  have  I 
also  ruined  the  poor  child  whom  I  wanted  to  save  ?  " 

Monsieur  de  Gabry  silently  filled  his  pipe,  and 
lighted  it  so  slowly  that  his  kind  broad  face  remained 
for  at  least  three  or  four  minutes  glowing  red  behind 
the  light,  like  a  blacksmith's  in  the  gleam  of  his 
forge-fire.  Then  he  said, 

"  You  want  to  know  what  to  do  ?  Why,  don't 
do  anything,  my  dear  Monsieur  Bonnard  !  For 
God's  sake,  and  for  your  own  sake,  don't  do  anything 
at  all !  Your  situation  is  bad  enough  as  it  is ; 
don't  try  to  meddle  with  it  now,  unless  you  want  to 
create  new  difficulties  for  yourself.  But  you  must 
promise  me  to  sustain  me  in  any  action  that  I  may 
take.  I  shall  go  to  see  Monsieur  Mouche  the  very 
first  thing  to-morrow  morning  ;  and  if  he  turns  out 
to  be  what  we  think  he  is — that  is  to  say,  a  consum- 
mate rascal — I  shall  very  soon  find  means  of  making 
him  harmless,  even  if  the  devil  himself  should  take 
sides  with  him.  For  everything  depends  on  him. 
As  it  is  too  late  this  evening  to  take  Mademoiselle 
Jeanne  back  to  her  boarding-school,  my  wife  will 
keep  the  young  lady  here  to-night.  This  of  course 
plainly  constitutes  the  misdemeanour  of  complicity  ; 
but  it  saves  the  girl  from  anything  like  an  equivocal 


274  THE  CRIME  OF 

position.  As  for  you,  my  dear  Monsieur,  you  just 
go  back  to  the  Quai  Malaquais  as  quickly  as  you  can  ; 
and  if  they  come  to  look  for  Jeanne  there,  it  will  be 
very  easy  for  you  to  prove  she  is  not  in  your  house." 

While  we  were  thus  talking,  Madame  de  Gabry 
was  preparing  to  make  her  young  lodger  com- 
fortable for  the  night.  When  she  bade  me  good-bye 
at  the  door,  she  was  carrying  a  pair  of  clean  sheets, 
scented  with  lavender,  thrown  over  her  arm. 

"  That,"  I  said,  "  is  a  sweet  honest  smell." 

"  Well,  of  course,"  answered  Madame  de  Gabry, 
"  you  must  remember  we  are  peasants." 

"  Ah  !  "  I  answered  her,  "  Heaven  grant  that  I 
also  may  be  able  one  of  these  days  to  become  a 
peasant !  Heaven  grant  that  one  of  these  days  I 
may  be  able,  as  you  are  at  Lusance,  to  inhale  the 
sweet  fresh  odour  of  the  country,  and  live  in  some 
little  house  all  hidden  among  trees ;  and  if  this 
wish  of  mine  be  too  ambitious  on  the  part  of  an  old 
man  whose  life  is  nearly  closed,  then  I  will  only  wish 
that  my  winding-sheet  may  be  as  sweetly  scented 
with  lavender  as  that  linen  you  have  on  your  arm." 

It  was  agreed  that  I  should  come  to  lunch  the 
following  morning.  But  I  was  positively  forbidden 
to  show  myself  at  the  house  before  midday.  Jeanne, 
as  she  kissed  me  good-bye,  begged  me  not  to  take  her 
back  to  the  school  any  more.  We  felt  much  affected 
tt  parting,  and  very  anxious. 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  275 

I  found  Therese  waiting  for  me  on  the  landing,  in 
such  a  condition  of  worry  about  me  that  it  had  made 
her  furious.  She  talked  of  nothing  less  than  keeping 
me  under  lock  and  key  in  the  future. 

What  a  night  I  passed  !  I  never  closed  my  eyes 
for  one  single  instant.  From  time  to  time  I  could 
not  help  laughing  like  a  boy  at  the  success  of  my 
prank ;  and  then  again,  an  inexpressible  feeling  of 
horror  would  come  upon  me  at  the  thought  of  being 
dragged  before  some  magistrate,  and  having  to  take 
my  place  upon  the  prisoner's  bench,  to  answer  for 
the  crime  which  I  had  so  naturally  committed.  I 
was  very  much  afraid  ;  and  nevertheless  I  felt  no 
remorse  or  regret  whatever.  The  sun,  coming  into 
my  room  at  last,  merrily  lighted  upon  the  foot  of 
my  bed,  and  then  I  made  this  prayer  : 

"My  God,  Thou  who  didst  make  the  sky  and 
the  dew,  as  it  is  said  in  Tristan,  judge  me  in  Thine 
equity,  not  indeed  according  unto  my  acts,  but 
according  only  to  my  motives,  which  Thou  knowest 
have  been  upright  and  pure  ;  and  I  will  say  :  Glory 
to  Thee  in  heaven,  and  peace  on  earth  to  men  of 
good- will.  I  give  into  Thy  hands  the  child  I  stole 
away.  Do  that  for  her  which  I  have  not  known 
how  to  do ;  guard  her  from  all  her  enemies ; — 
and  blessed  for  ever  be  Thy  name  1  " 


276  THE  CRIME  OF 

December  29. 

WHEN  I  arrived  at  Madame  de  Gabry's,  I  found 
Jeanne  completely  transfigured. 

Had  she  also,  like  myself,  at  the  first  light  of  dawn, 
called  upon  Him  who  made  the  sky  and  the  dew  ? 
She  smiled  with  such  a  sweet  calm  smile  ! 

Madame  de  Gabry  called  her  away  to  arrange  her 
hair  ;  for  the  amiable  lady  had  insisted  upon  comb- 
ing and  plaiting,  with  her  own  hands,  the  hair  of 
the  child  confided  to  her  care.  As  I  had  come  a  little 
before  the  hour  agreed  upon,  I  had  interrupted 
this  charming  toilet.  By  way  of  punishment  I  was 
told  to  go  and  wait  in  the  parlour  all  by  myself. 
Monsieur  de  Gabry  joined  me  there  in  a  little  while. 
He  had  evidently  just  come  in,  for  I  could  see  on  his 
forehead  the  mark  left  by  the  lining  of  his  hat.  His 
frank  face  wore  an  expression  of  joyful  excitement. 
I  thought  I  had  better  not  ask  him  any  questions ; 
and  we  all  went  to  lunch.  When  the  servants  had 
finished  waiting  at  table,  Monsieur  Paul,  who  had 
been  keeping  his  good  story  for  the  dessert,  said 
to  us, 

"  Well !     I  went  to  Levallois." 

"  Did  you  see  Mattre  Mouche  ?  "  excitedly 
inquired  Madame  de  Gabry. 

"  No,"  he  replied,  curiously  watching  the  expres- 
sion of  disappointment  upon  our  faces. 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  277 

After  having  amused  himself  with  our  anxiety  for 
a  reasonable  time,  the  good  fellow  added  : 

"  Maitre    Mouche    is    no    longer    at    Levallois. 
Maitre  Mouche  has  gone  away  from  France.     The 
day  after  to-morrow  will  make  just  eight  days  since 
he  decamped,  taking  with  him  all  the  money  of  his 
clients — a  tolerably  large  sum.     I  found  the  office 
closed.     A  woman  who  lived  close  by  told  me  all 
about  it  with  an  abundance  of  curses  and  impreca- 
tions.    The  notary  did  not  take  the  7.55  train  all 
by  himself  ;   he  took  with  him  the  daughter  of  the 
hairdresser  of  Levallois,  a  young  person  quite  famous 
in  that  part  of  the  country  for  her  beauty  and  her 
accomplishments ; — they  say  she  could  shave  better 
than  her  father.     Well,  anyhow  Mouche  has  run 
away  with  her  ;    the  Commissaire  de  Police  con- 
firmed the  fact  for  me.     Now,  really,  could  it  have 
been  possible  for  Maitre  Mouche  to  have  left  the 
country  at  a  more  opportune  moment  ?     If  he  had 
only  deferred  his  escapade  one  week  longer,  he  would 
have  been  still  the  representative  of  society,  and  would 
have  had  you  dragged  off  to  gaol,  Monsieur  Bonnard, 
like  a  criminal.     At  present  we  have  nothing  what- 
ever to  fear  from  him.     Here  is  to  the  health  of 
Maitre   Mouche  !  "  he  cried,   pouring  out  a  glass 
of  white  wine. 

I  would  like  to  live  a  long  time  if  it  were  only  to 
remember  that  delightful  morning.     We  four  were 

i 


278  THE  CRIME  OF 

all  assembled  in  the  big  white  dining-room  around 
the  waxed  oak  table.  Monsieur  Paul's  mirth  was 
of  the  hearty  kind, — even  perhaps  a  little  riotous  ; 
and  the  good  man  quaffed  deeply.  Madame  de 
Gabry  smiled  at  me,  with  a  smile  so  sweet,  so  perfect, 
and  so  noble,  that  I  thought  such  a  woman  ought 
to  keep  smiles  like  that  simply  as  a  reward  for  good 
actions,  and  thus  make  everybody  who  knew  her  do 
all  the  good  of  which  they  were  capable.  Then,  to 
reward  us  for  our  pains,  Jeanne,  who  had  regained 
something  of  her  former  vivacity,  asked  us  in  less 
than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  one  dozen  questions,  to 
answer  which  would  have  required  an  exhaustive 
exposition  of  the  nature  of  man,  the  nature  of  the 
universe,  the  science  of  physics  and  of  metaphysics, 
the  Macrocosm  and  the  Microcosm — not  to  speak 
of  the  Ineffable  and  the  Unknowable.  Then  she 
drew  out  of  her  pocket  her  little  Saint-George,  who 
had  suffered  most  cruelly  during  our  flight.  His 
legs  and  arms  were  gone  ;  but  he  still  had  his  gold 
helmet  with  the  green  dragon  on  it.  Jeanne 
solemnly  pledged  herself  to  make  a  restoration  of 
him  in  honour  of  Madame  de  Gabry. 

Delightful    friends  !     I   left   them   at  last   over- 
whelmed with  fatigue  and  joy. 

On  re-entering  my  lodgings  I  had  tc  endure  the 
yery  sharpest  remonstrances  from  Therese,  who  said 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  279 

she  had  given  up  trying  to  understand  my  new  way 
of  living.  In  her  opinion  Monsieur  had  really  lost 
his  mind. 

"  Yes,  Therese,  I  am  a  mad  old  man  and  you  are  a 
mad  old  woman.  That  is  certain  !  May  the  good 
God  bless  us  both,  Therese,  and  give  us  new  strength; 
for  we  now  have  new  duties  to  perform.  But  let 
me  lie  down  upon  the  sofa  ;  for  I  really  cannot  keep 
myself  on  my  feet  any  longer." 

January  15,  186-. 

"  GOOD-MORNING,  Monsieur,"  said  Jeanne,  letting 
herself  in  ;  while  Therese  remained  grumbling  in  the 
corridor  because  she  had  not  been  able  to  get  to  the 
door  in  time. 

"  Mademoiselle,  I  beg  you  will  be  kind  enough  to 
address  me  very  solemnly  by  my  title,  and  to  say  to 
me,  '  Good-morning,  my  guardian.'  ' 

"  Then  it  has  all  been  settled  ?  Oh,  how  nice  !  " 
cried  the  child,  clapping  her  hands. 

"  It  has  all  been  arranged,  Mademoiselle,  in  the 
Salle-commune  and  before  the  Justice  of  the  Peace  ; 
and  from  to-day  you  are  under  my  authority.  .  .  . 
What  are  you  laughing  about,  my  ward  ?  I  see  it  in 
your  eyes.  You  have  some  crazy  idea  in  your  head 
this  very  moment — some  more  nonsense,  eh  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  Monsieur.  ...  I  mean,  my  guardian. 
I  was  looking  at  your  white  hair.  It  curls  out  from 


280  THE  CRIME  OF 

under  the  edge  of  your  hat  like  honeysuckle  on  a 
balcony.  It  is  very  handsome,  and  I  like  it  very 
much  !  " 

"  Be  good  enough  to  sit  down,  my  ward,  and,  if 
you  can  possibly  help  it,  stop  saying  ridiculous  things, 
because  I  have  some  very  serious  things  to  say  to  you. 
Listen.  I  suppose  you  are  not  going  to  insist  upon 
being  sent  back  to  the  establishment  of  Mademoiselle 
Prefere  ?  .  .  .  No.  Well,  then,  what  would  you 
say  if  I  should  take  you  here  to  live  with  me,  and  to 
finish  your  education,  and  keep  you  here  until  .  .  . 
what  shall  I  say  ? — for  ever,  as  the  song  has  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Monsieur  !  "  she  cried,  flushing  crimson 
with  pleasure. 

I  continued, 

"  Behind  there  we  have  a  nice  little  room,  which  my 
housekeeper  has  cleaned  up  and  furnished  for  you. 
You  are  going  to  take  the  place  of  the  books  which 
used  to  be  in  it ;  you  will  succeed  them  as  the  day  suc- 
ceeds night.  Go  with  Therese  and  look  at  it,  and  see 
if  you  think  you  will  be  able  to  live  in  it.  Madame 
de  Gabry  and  I  have  made  up  our  minds  that  you 
can  sleep  there  to-night." 

She  had  already  started  to  run  ;  I  called  her  back 
for  a  moment. 

"  Jeanne,  listen  to  me  a  moment  longer  !  You 
have  always  until  now  made  yourself  a  favourite  with 
my  housekeeper,  who,  like  all  very  old  people,  is  apt 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  281 

tc  be  cross  at  times.  Be  gentle  and  forbearing. 
Make  every  allowance  for  her.  I  have  thought  it  my 
duty  to  make  every  allowance  for  her  myself,  and  to 
put  up  with  all  her  fits  of  impatience.  Now,  let  me 
tell  you,  Jeanne  : — Respect  her  !  And  when  I  say 
that,  I  do  not  forget  that  she  is  my  servant  and  yours; 
neither  will  she  ever  allow  herself  to  forget  it  for  a 
moment.  But  what  I  want  you  to  respect  in  her 
is  her  great  age  and  her  great  heart.  She  is  a 
humble  woman  who  has  lived  a  very,  very  long 
time  in  the  habit  of  doing  good ;  and  she  has 
become  hardened  and  stiffened  in  that  habit. 
Bear  patiently  with  the  harsh  ways  of  that  upright 
soul.  If  you  know  how  to  command,  she  will 
know  how  to  obey.  Go  now,  my  child  ;  arrange 
your  room  in  whatever  way  may  seem  to  you  best 
suited  for  your  studies  and  for  your  repose." 

Having  started  Jeanne,  with  this  viaticum,  upon 
her  domestic  career,  I  began  to  read  a  Review, 
which,  although  conducted  by  very  young  men,  is 
excellent.  The  tone  of  it  is  somewhat  unpolished, 
but  the  spirit  zealous.  The  article  I  read  was 
certainly  far  superior,  in  point  of  precision  and 
positiveness,  to  anything  of  the  sort  ever  written 
when  I  was  a  young  man.  The  author  of  the 
article,  Monsieur  Paul  Meyer,  points  out  every 
error  with  a  remarkably  lucid  power  of  incisive 
criticism. 


282  THE  CRIME  OF 

We  used  not  in  my  time  to  criticise  with  such 
strict  justice.  Our  indulgence  was  vast.  It  went 
even  so  far  as  to  confuse  the  scholar  and  the 
ignoramus  in  the  same  burst  of  praise.  And 
nevertheless  one  must  learn  how  to  find  fault ;  and 
it  is  even  an  imperative  duty  to  blame  when  the 
blame  is  deserved. 

I  remember  little  Raymond  (that  was  the  name 
we  gave  him)  ;  he  did  not  know  anything,  and  his 
mind  was  not  a  mind  capable  of  absorbing  any  solid 
learning ;  but  he  was  very  fond  of  his  mother. 
We  took  very  good  care  never  to  utter  a  hint  of  the 
ignorance  of  so  perfect  a  son  ;  and,  thanks  to  our 
forbearance,  little  Raymond  made  his  way  to  the 
highest  positions.  He  had  lost  his  mother  then  ; 
but  honours  of  all  kinds  were  showered  upon  him. 
He  became  omnipotent — to  the  grievous  injury  of 
his  colleagues  and  of  science.  .  .  .  But  here  comes 
my  young  friend  of  the  Luxembourg. 

"  Good-evening,  Gelis.  You  look  very  happy 
to-day.  What  good  fortune  has  come  to  you,  my 
dear  lad  ? " 

His  good  fortune  is  that  he  has  been  able  to  sustain 
his  thesis  very  creditably,  and  that  he  has  taken 
high  rank  in  his  class.  He  tells  me  this  with  the 
additional  information  that  my  own  works,  which 
were  incidentally  referred  to  in  the  course  of  the 
examination,  had  been  spoken  of  by  the  college 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  283 

professors  in  terms  of  the  most  unqualified 
praise. 

"  That  is  very  nice,"  I  replied  ;  "  and  it  makes  me 
very  happy,  Gelis,  to  find  my  old  reputation  thus 
associated  with  your  own  youthful  honours.  I  was 
very  much  interested,  you  know,  in  that  thesis  of 
yours ;  but  some  domestic  arrangements  have  been 
keeping  me  so  busy  lately  that  I  quite  forgot  this 
was  the  day  on  which  you  were  to  sustain  it." 

Mademoiselle  Jeanne  made  her  appearance  very 
opportunely,  as  if  in  order  to  suggest  to  him  some- 
thing about  the  nature  of  those  very  domestic 
arrangements.  The  giddy  girl  burst  into  the  City 
of  Books  like  a  fresh  breeze,  crying  out  at  the  top 
of  her  voice  that  her  room  was  a  perfect  little 
wonder.  Then  she  became  very  red  indeed  on 
seeing  Monsieur  Gelis  there.  But  none  of  us  can 
escape  our  destiny. 

Monsieur  Gelis  asked  her  how  she  was  with  the 
tone  of  a  young  fellow  who  presumes  upon  a  pre- 
vious acquaintance,  and  who  proposes  to  put  himself 
forward  as  an  old  friend.  Oh,  never  fear  ! — she 
had  not  forgotten  him  at  all ;  that  was  very  evident 
from  the  fact  that  then  and  there,  right  under  my 
nose,  they  resumed  their  last  year's  conversation 
on  the  subject  of  the  "  Venetian  blond  "  !  They 
continued  the  discussion  after  quite  an  animated 
fashion.  I  began  to  ask  myself  what  right  I  had 


284  THE  CRIME  OF 

to  be  in  the  room  at  all.  The  only  thing  I  could  do 
in  order  to  make  myself  heard  was  to  cough.  As  for 
getting  in  JL  word,  they  never  even  gave  me  a  chance. 
Gelis  discoursed  enthusiastically,  not  only  about  the 
Venetian  colourists,  but  also  upon  all  other  matters 
relating  to  nature  or  to  mankind.  And  Jeanne 
kept  answering  him,  "  Yes,  Monsieur,  you  are  right." 
...  "  That  is  just  what  I  supposed,  Monsieur." 
...  "  Monsieur,  you  express  so  beautifully  just 
what  I  feel."  ...  "  I  am  going  to  think  a  great 
deal  about  what  you  have  just  told  me,  Monsieur." 
When  /  speak,  Mademoiselle  never  answers  me  in 
that  tone.  It  is  only  with  the  very  tip  of  her  tongue 
that  she  will  even  taste  any  intellectual  food  which  I 
set  before  her.  Usually  she  will  not  touch  it  at 
all.  But  Monsieur  Gelis  seems  to  be  in  her  opinion 
the  supreme  authority  upon  all  subjects.  It  was 
always,  "  Oh,  yes  !  "— "  Oh,  of  course  !  "—to  all 
his  empty  chatter.  And,  then,  the  eyes  of  Jeanne  ! 
I  had  never  seen  them  look  so  large  before  ;  I  had 
never  before  observed  in  them  such  fixity  of  expres- 
sion ;  but  her  gaze  otherwise  remained  what  it 
always  is — artless,  frank,  and  brave.  Gelis  evidently 
pleased  her ;  she  likes  Gelis,  and  her  eyes  betrayed 
the  fact.  They  would  have  published  it  to  the 
entire  universe  !  All  very  fine,  Master  Bonnard  ! — 
you  have  been  so  deeply  interested  in  observing 
your  ward,  that  you  have  been  forgetting  you  are 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  285 

her  guardian  !  You  began  only  this  morning  to 
exercise  that  function  ;  and  you  can  already  see 
that  it  involves  some  very  delicate  and  difficult 
duties.  Bonnard,  you  must  really  try  to  devise 
some  means  of  keeping  that  young  man  away  from 
her  ;  you  really  ought.  ...  Eh  !  how  am  I  to 
know  what  I  am  to  do  ? .  .  . 

I  have  picked  up  a  book  at  random  from  the 
nearest  shelf ;  I  open  it,  and  I  enter  respectfully 
into  the  middle  of  a  drama  of  Sophocles.  The 
older  I  grow,  the  more  I  learn  to  love  the  two 
civilisations  of  the  antique  world ;  and  now  I 
always  keep  the  poets  of  Italy  and  of  Greece  on  a 
shelf  within  easy  reach  of  my  arm  in  the  City  of 
Books. 

Monsieur  and  Mademoiselle  finally  condescend  to 
take  some  notice  of  me,  now  that  I  seem  too  busy 
to  take  any  notice  of  them.  1  really  think  that 
Mademoiselle  Jeanne  has  even  asked  me  what  I  am 
reading.  No,  indeed,  I  will  not  tell  her  what  it  is. 
What  I  am  reading,  between  ourselves,  is  the 
chant  of  that  smooth  and  luminous  Chorus  which 
rolls  out  its  magnificent  tunefulness  through  a  scene 
of  passionate  violence — the  Chorus  of  the  Old  Men 
of  Thebes — 'E/owc  "vocarf  .  .  .  .  "  Invincible  Love, 
0  Thou  who  descendest  upon  rich  houses, — Thou  who 
dost  rest  upon  the  delicate  cheek  of  the  maiden, — Thou 
who  dost  traverse  all  seas, — surely  none  among  the 


286  THE  CRIME  OF 

Immortals  can  escape  Thee,  nor  indeed  any  among  men 
who  live  but  for  a  little  space  ;  and  he  who  is  possessed 
by  Thee,  there  is  a  madness  upon  him."  And  when  I 
had  re-read  that  delicious  chant,  the  face  of  Antigone 
appeared  before  me  in  all  its  passionless  purity. 
What  images  !  Gods  and  goddesses  who  hover 
in  the  highest  height  of  heaven  !  The  blind  old 
man,  the  long-wandering  beggar-king,  led  by- 
Antigone,  has  now  been  buried  with  holy  rites  ;  and 
his  daughter,  fair  as  the  fairest  dream  ever  conceived 
by  human  soul,  resists  the  will  of  the  tyrant  and  gives 
pious  sepulture  to  her  brother.  She  loves  the  son 
of  the  tyrant,  and  that  son  loves  her  also.  And 
as  she  goes  on  her  way  to  execution,  the  victim  of 
her  own  sweet  piety,  the  old  men  sing, "  Invincible 
Love,  0  Thou  who  dost  descend  upon  rich  houses, — 
Thou  who  dost  rest  upon  the  delicate  cheek  of  the 
maiden"  .  .  . 

"  Mademoiselle  Jeanne,  are  you  really  very 
anxious  to  know  what  I  am  reading  ?  I  am  reading, 
Mademoiselle — I  am  reading  that  Antigone,  having 
buried  the  blind  old  man,  wove  a  fair  tapestry 
embroidered  with  images  in  the  likeness  of  laughing 
faces." 

"  Ah ! "  said  Gelis,  as  he  burst  out  laughing, 
"  that  is  not  in  the  text." 

"  It  is  a  scholium,"  I  said. 

"  Unpublished,"  he  added,  getting  up. 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  287 

I  am  not  an  egotist.  But  I  am  prudent.  I  have 
to  bring  up  this  child  ;  she  is  much  too  young  to 
be  married  now.  No  !  I  am  not  an  egotist,  but 
I  must  certainly  keep  her  with  me  for  a  few  years 
more — keep  her  alone  with  me.  She  can  surely 
wait  until  I  am  dead  !  Fear  not,  Antigone,  old 
(Edipus  will  find  holy  burial  soon  enough. 

In  the  meanwhile,  Antigone  is  helping  our  house- 
keeper to  scrape  the  carrots.  She  says  she  likes  to 
do  it — that  it  is  in  her  line,  being  related  to  the  art 
of  sculpture. 

May. 

WHO  would  recognise  the  City  of  Books  now  ? 
There  are  flowers  everywhere — even  upon  all  the 
articles  of  furniture.  Jeanne  was  right  :  those 
roses  do  look  very  nice  in  that  blue  china  vase. 
She  goes  to  market  every  day  with  Therese,  under 
the  pretext  of  helping  the  old  servant  to  make  her 
purchases,  but  she  never  brings  anything  back  with 
her  except  flowers.  Flowers  are  really  very  charm- 
ing creatures.  And  one  of  these  days  I  must 
certainly  carry  out  my  plan,  and  devote  myself  to 
the  study  of  them,  in  their  own  natural  domain,  in 
the  country — with  all  the  science  and  earnestness 
which  I  possess. 

For  what  have  I  to  do  here  ?  Why  should  I  burn 
my  eyes  out  over  these  old  parchments  which  cannot 


THE  CRIME  OF 

now  tell  me  anything  worth  knowing  ?  I  used  to 
study  them,  those  old  texts,  with  the  most  ardent 
enjoyment.  What  was  it  which  I  was  then  so 
anxious  to  find  in  them  ?  The  date  of  a  pious 
foundation — the  name  of  some  monkish  imagitr  or 
copyist — the  price  of  a  loaf,  of  an  ox,  or  of  a  field 
— some  judicial  or  administrative  enactment — all 
that,  and  yet  something  more,  a  Something  vaguely 
mysterious  and  sublime  which  excited  my  enthu- 
siasm. But  for  sixty  years  I  have  been  searching 
in  vain  for  that  Something.  Better  men  than  I 
— the  masters,  the  truly  great,  the  Fauriels,  the 
Thierrys,  who  found  so  many  things — died  at  their 
task  without  having  been  able,  any  more  than  I 
have  been,  to  find  that  Something  which,  being 
incorporeal,  has  no  name,  and  without  which, 
nevertheless,  no  great  mental  work  would  ever  be 
undertaken  in  this  world.  And  now  that  I  am 
only  looking  for  what  I  should  certainly  be  able 
to  find,  I  cannot  find  anything  at  all ;  and  it 
is  probable  that  I  shall  never  be  able  to  finish 
the  history  of  the  Abbots  of  Saint-Germain- 
des-Pres. 

"  Guardian,  just  guess  what  I  have  in  mv  hand- 
kerchief." 

"  Judging  from  appearances,  Jeanne,  I  should  say 
flowers." 

"Oh,  no — not  flowers.    Look!" 


SYLVESTKE  BONNARD  289 

I  look,  and  I  see  a  little  grey  head  poking  itself 
out  of  the  handkerchief.  It  is  the  head  of  a  little 
grey  cat.  The  handkerchief  opens ;  the  animal 
leaps  down  upon  the  carpet,  shakes  itself,  pricks  up 
first  one  ear  and  then  the  other,  and  begins  to 
examine  with  due  caution  the  locality  and  the 
inhabitants  thereof. 

Therese,  out  of  breath,  with  her  basket  on  her 
*,rm,  suddenly  makes  her  appearance  in  time  to 
take  an  objective  part  in  this  examination,  which 
does  not  appear  to  result  altogether  in  her  favour  ; 
for  the  young  cat  moves  slowly  away  from  her, 
without,  however,  venturing  near  my  legs,  or 
approaching  Jeanne,  who  displays  extraordinary 
volubility  in  the  use  of  caressing  appellations. 
Therese,  whose  chief  fault  is  her  inability  to  hide 
her  feelings,  thereupon  vehemently  reproaches 
Mademoiselle  for  bringing  home  a  cat  that  she  did 
not  know  anything  about.  Jeanne,  in  order  to 
justify  herself,  tells  the  whole  story.  While  she  was 
passing  with  Therese  before  a  chemist's  shop,  she  saw 
the  assistant  kick  a  little  cat  into  the  street.  The  cat, 
astonished  and  frightened,  seemed  to  be  asking  itself 
whether  to  remain  in  the  street  where  it  was  being 
terrified  and  knocked  about  by  the  people  passing  by, 
or  whether  to  go  back  into  the  chemist's  even  at 
the  risk  of  being  kicked  out  a  second  time.  Jeanne 
thought  it  was  in  a  very  critical  position,  and 


290  THE  CRIME  OF 

understood  its  hesitation.  It  looked  so  stupid ; 
and  she  knew  it  looked  stupid  only  because  it  could 
not  decide  what  to  do.  So  she  took  it  up  in  her 
arms.  And  as  it  had  not  been  able  to  obtain 
any  rest  either  indoors  or  out-of-doors,  it  allowed 
her  to  hold  it.  Then  she  stroked  and  petted  it 
to  keep  it  from  being  afraid,  and  boldly  went  to 
the  chemist's  assistant  and  said, 

"  If  you  don't  like  that  animal,  you  mustn't  beat 
it ;  you  must  give  it  to  me." 

"  Take  it,"  said  the  assistant. 

..."  Now  there  !  "  adds  Jeanne,  by  way  of 
conclusion  ;  and  then  she  changes  her  voice  again  to 
a  flute-tone  in  order  to  say  all  kinds  of  sweet  things 
to  that  cat. 

"  He  is  horribly  thin,"  I  observe,  looking  at  the 
wretched  animal ; — "  moreover,  he  is  horribly  ugly." 
Jeanne  thinks  he  is  not  ugly  at  all,  but  she  acknow- 
ledges that  he  looks  even  more  stupid  than  he  looked 
at  first  :  this  time  she  thinks  it  not  indecision,  but 
surprise,  which  gives  that  unfortunate  aspect  to  his 
countenance.  She  asks  us  to  imagine  ourselves  in  his 
place  ; — then  we  are  obliged  to  acknowledge  that 
he  cannot  possibly  understand  what  has  happened  to 
him.  And  then  we  all  burst  out  laughing  in  the 
face  of  the  poor  little  beast,  which  maintains  the 
most  comical  look  of  gravity.  Jeanne  wants  to  take 
him  up  ;  but  he  hides  himself  under  the  table,  and 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  291 

cannot  even  be  tempted  to  come  out  by  tne  lure 
of  a  saucer  of  milk. 

We  all  turn  our  backs  and  promise  not  to  look ; 
when  we  inspect  the  saucer  again,  we  find  it 
empty. 

"  Jeanne,"  I  observe,  "  your  protege  has  a  decidedly 
tristful  aspect  of  countenance  ;  he  is  of  a  sly  and 
suspicious  disposition  ;  I  trust  he  is  not  going  to 
commit  in  the  City  of  Books  any  such  misdemeanours 
as  might  render  it  necessary  for  us  to  send  him  back 
to  his  chemist's  shop.  In  the  meantime  we  must  give 
him  a  name.  Suppose  we  call  him  *  Don  Gris  de 
Gouttiere  ' ;  but  perhaps  that  is  too  long.  '  Pill,' 
'  Drug,'  or  *  Castor-oil  '  would  be  short  enough,  and 
would  further  serve  to  recall  his  early  condition  in 
life.  What  do  you  think  about  it  ?  " 

"  *  Pill '  would  not  sound  bad,"  answers  Jeanne, 
"  but  it  would  be  very  unkind  to  give  him  a  name 
which  would  be  always  reminding  him  of  the  misery 
from  which  we  saved  him.  It  would  be  making  him 
pay  too  dearly  for  our  hospitality.  Let  us  be  more 
generous,  and  give  him  a  pretty  name,  in  hopes  that 
he  is  going  to  deserve  it.  See  how  he  looks  at  us  ! 
He  knows  that  we  are  talking  about  him.  And  now 
that  he  is  no  longer  unhappy,  he  is  beginning  to  look 
a  great  deal  less  stupid.  I  am  not  joking  !  Un- 
happinoss  does  make  people  look  stupid, — I  am 
perfectly  sure  it  does." 


192  THE  CRIME  OF 

Well,  Jeanne,  if  you  like,  we  will  call  yonr 
frotfgi  Hannibal.  The  appropriateness  of  that 
name  does  not  seem  to  strike  you  at  once.  But  the 
Angora  cat  who  preceded  him  here  as  an  inmate  of 
the  City  of  Books,  and  to  whom  I  was  in  the  habit 
of  telling  all  my  secrets — for  he  was  a  very  wise  and 
discreet  person — used  to  be  called  Hamilcar.  It  is 
natural  that  this  name  should  beget  the  other,  and 
that  Hannibal  should  succeed  Hamilcar. 

We  all  agreed  upon  this  point. 

"  Hannibal !  "  cried  Jeanne,  "  come  here  !  " 

Hannibal,  greatly  frightened  by  the  strange 
sonority  of  his  own  name,  ran  to  hide  himself  under 
a  bookcase  in  an  orifice  so  small  that  a  rat  could 
not  have  squeezed  himself  into  it. 

A  nice  way  of  doing  credit  to  so  great  a  name  ! 

I  was  in  a  good  humour  for  working  that  day,  and 
I  had  just  dipped  the  nib  of  my  pen  into  the  ink- 
bottle  when  1  heard  some  one  ring.  Should  any 
one  ever  read  these  pages  written  by  an  unimagina- 
tive old  man,  he  will  be  sure  to  laugh  at  the  way  that 
bell  keeps  ringing  through  my  narrative,  without 
ever  announcing  the  arrival  of  a  new  personage 
or  introducing  any  unexpected  incident.  On  the 
stage  things  are  managed  on  the  reverse  principle. 
Monsieur  Scribe  never  has  the  curtain  raised  without 
good  reason,  and  for  the  greater  enjoyment  of  ladiet 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  293 

and  young  misses.  That  is  art  !  I  would  rather 
hang  myself  than  write  a  play, — not  that  I  despise 
life,  but  because  I  should  never  be  able  to  invent 
anything  amusing.  Invent  !  In  order  to  do  that 
one  must  have  received  the  gift  of  inspiration.  It 
would  be  a  very  unfortunate  thing  for  me  to  possess 
such  a  gift.  Suppose  I  were  to  invent  some  monk- 
ling  in  my  history  of  the  Abbey  of  Saint-Germain - 
des-Pres  !  What  would  our  young  erudites  say  ? 
What  a  scandal  for  the  School !  As  for  the  Institute, 
it  would  say  nothing  and  probably  not  even  think 
about  the  matter  either.  Even  if  my  colleagues 
still  write  a  little  sometimes,  they  never  read.  They 
are  of  the  opinion  of  Paray,  who  said, 

**  Une  paisible  indifference 
Eft  la  plus  sage  dej  verttu."  * 

To  be  the  least  wise  in  order  to  become  the  most 
wise — this  is  precisely  what  those  Buddhists  are 
aiming  at  without  knowing  it.  If  there  is  any  wiser 
wisdom  than  that  I  will  go  to  Rome  to  report 
upon  it.  ...  And  all  this  because  Monsieur  Gelis 
happened  to  ring  the  bell ! 

This  young  man  has  latterly  changed  his  manner 
completely  with  Jeanne.  He  is  now  quite  as  serious 
as  he  used  to  be  frivolous,  and  quite  as  silent  as  he 
used  to  be  chatty.  And  Jeanne  follows  his  example. 

*  "The  mo»t  wiie  of  the  virtues  U  a  calm  indifference." 

¥ 


294  THE  CRIME  OF 

We  have  reached  the  phase  of  passionate  love  under 
constraint.  For,  old  as  I  am,  I  cannot  be  deceived 
about  it :  these  two  children  are  violently  and 
sincerely  in  love  with  each  other.  Jeanne  now  avoids 
him — she  hides  herself  in  her  room  when  he  comes 
into  the  library — but  how  well  she  knows  how  to 
reach  him  when  she  is  alone  !  alone  at  her  piano  ! 
Every  evening  she  talks  to  him  through  the  music 
she  plays  with  a  rich  thrill  of  passional  feeling 
which  is  the  new  utterance  of  her  new  soul. 

Well,  why  should  I  not  confess  it  ?  Why  should  I 
not  avow  my  weakness  ?  Surely  my  egotism  would 
not  become  any  less  blameworthy  by  keeping  it 
hidden  from  myself  ?  So  I  will  write  it.  Yes  ! 
I  was  hoping  for  something  else  ; — yes  !  I  thought  I 
was  going  to  keep  her  all  to  myself,  as  my  own  child, 
as  my  own  daughter — not  always,  of  course,  not 
even  perhaps  for  very  long,  but  just  for  a  few  years 
more.  I  am  so  old  !  Could  she  not  wait  ?  And, 
who  knows  ?  With  the  help  of  the  gout,  I  would 
not  have  imposed  upon  her  patience  too  much. 
That  was  my  wish  ;  that  was  my  hope.  I  had  made 
my  plans — I  had  not  reckoned  upon  the  coming  of 
this  wild  young  man.  But  the  mistake  is  none  the 
less  cruel  because  my  reckoning  happened  to  be 
wrong.  And  yet  it  seems  to  me  that  you  are  con- 
demning yourself  very  rashly,  friend  Sylvestre 
Bonnard  :  if  you  did  want  to  keep  this  young  girl 


SVLVESTRE  BONNARD  295 

A  few  years  longer,  it  was  quite  as  much  in  her  own 
interest  as  in  yours.  She  has  a  great  deal  to  learn 
yet,  and  you  are  not  a  master  to  be  despised.  When 
that  miserable  notary  Mouche — who  subsequently 
committed  his  rascalities  at  so  opportune  a  moment 
— paid  you  the  honour  of  a  visit,  you  explained  to 
him  your  ideas  of  education  with  all  the  fervour 
of  high  enthusiasm.  Then  you  attempted  to  put 
that  system  of  yours  into  practice  ; — Jeanne  is 
certainly  an  ungrateful  girl,  and  Gelis  a  much  too 
seductive  young  man  ! 

But  still, — unless  I  put  him  out  of  the  house, 
which  would  be  a  detestably  ill-mannered  and  ill- 
natured  thing  to  do, — I  must  continue  to  receive 
him.  He  has  been  waiting  ever  so  long  in  my  little 
parlour,  in  front  of  those  Sevres  vases  with  which 
King  Louis  Philippe  so  graciously  presented  me. 
The  Moissonneurs  and  the  Pecheurs  of  Leopold 
Robert  are  painted  upon  those  porcelain  vases, 
which  Gelis  nevertheless  dares  to  call  frightfully 
ugly,  with  the  warm  approval  of  Jeanne,  whom  he 
has  absolutely  bewitched. 

"  My  dear  lad,  excuse  me  for  having  kept  you 
waiting  so  long.  I  had  a  little  bit  of  work  to  finish." 

I  am  telling  the  truth.  Meditation  is  work,  but 
of  course  Gelis  does  not  know  what  I  mean  ;  he 
thinks  I  am  referring  to  something  archaeological, 
and,  his  question  in  regard  to  the  health  of  Made- 


296  THE  CRIME  OF 

moiselle  Jeanne  having  been  answered  by  a  "  Very 
well  indeed,"  uttered  in.  that  extremely  dry  tone 
which  reveals  my  moral  authority  as  guardian,  we 
begin  to  converse  about  historical  subjects.  We 
first  enter  upon  generalities.  Generalities  are  some- 
times extremely  serviceable.  I  try  to  inculcate  into 
Monsieur  Gelis  some  respect  for  that  generation  of 
historians  to  which  I  belong.  I  say  to  him, 

"  History,  which  was  formerly  an  art,  and  which 
afforded  place  for  the  fullest  exercise  of  the  imagina- 
tion, has  in  our  time  become  a  science,  the  study  of 
which  demands  absolute  exactness  of  knowledge." 

Gelis  asks  leave  to  differ  from  me  on  this  subject. 
He  tells  me  he  does  not  believe  that  history  is  a 
science,  or  that  it  could  possibly  ever  become  a 
science. 

"  In  the  first  place,"  he  says  to  me,  "  what  is 
history  ?  The  written  representation  of  past  events. 
But  what  is  an  event  ?  Is  it  merely  a  commonplace 
bet  ?  Is  it  any  fact  ?  No  !  You  say  yourself  it  is 
a  noteworthy  fact.  Now,  how  is  the  historian  to 
tell  whether  a  fact  is  noteworthy  or  not  ?  He 
judges  it  arbitrarily,  according  to  his  tastes  and 
his  caprices  and  his  ideas — in  short,  as  an  artist  ? 
For  facts  cannot  by  reason  of  their  own  intrinsic 
character  be  divided  into  historical  facts  and  non- 
historical  facts.  But  any  fact  is  something  exceed- 
ingl)  complex.  Will  the  historian  represent  facts 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  297 

in  all  their  complexity  ?  No,  that  is  impossible. 
Then  he  will  represent  them  stripped  of  the  greater 
part  of  the  peculiarities  which  constituted  them,  and 
consequently  lopped,  mutilated,  different  from  what 
they  really  were.  As  for  the  inter-relation  of  facts, 
needless  to  speak  of  it  !  If  a  so-called  historical 
fact  be  brought  into  notice — as  is  very  possible — bv 
one  or  more  facts  which  are  not  historical  at  all, 
and  are  for  that  very  reason  unknown,  how  is  the 
historian  going  to  establish  the  relation  of  these 
facts  one  to  another  ?  And  in  saying  this,  Monsieur 
Bonnard,  I  am  supposing  that  the  historian  has 
positive  evidence  before  him,  whereas  in  reality 
he  feels  confidence  only  in  such  or  such  a  wit- 
ness for  sympathetic  reasons.  History  is  not  a 
science  ;  it  is  an  art,  and  one  can  succeed  in  that 
art  only  through  the  exercise  of  his  faculty  of 
imagination." 

Monsieur  Gelis  reminds  me  very  much  at  this 
moment  of  a  certain  young  fool  whom  I  heard 
talking  wildly  one  day  in  the  garden  of  the  Luxem- 
bourg, under  the  statue  of  Marguerite  of  Navarre. 
But  at  another  turn  of  the  conversation  we  find 
ourselves  face  to  face  with  Walter  Scott,  whose 
work  my  disdainful  young  friend  pleases  to  term 
"  rococo,  troubadourish,  and  only  fit  to  inspire 
somebody  engaged  in  making  designs  for  cheap 
bronze  clocks."  Those  are  his  very  wordt  1 


298  THE  CRIME  OF 

"  Why  !  "  I  exclaim,  zealous  to  defend  the  magni- 
ficent creator  of  *  The  Bride  of  Lammermoor  '  and 
'  The  Fair  Maid  of  Perth,'  "  the  whole  past  lives 
in  those  admirable  novels  of  his ; — that  is  history, 
that  is  epic  !  " 

"  It  is  frippery,"  Gelis  answers  me. 

And, — will  you  believe  it  ? — this  crazy  boy 
actually  tells  me  that  no  matter  how  learned  one 
may  be,  one  cannot  possibly  know  just  how  men 
used  to  live  five  or  ten  centuries  ago,  because  it  is 
only  with  the  very  greatest  difficulty  that  one  can 
picture  them  to  oneself  even  as  they  were  only  ten 
or  fifteen  years  ago.  In  his  opinion,  the  historical 
poem,  the  historical  novel,  the  historical  painting, 
are  all,  according  to  their  kind,  abominably  false  aa 
branches  of  art. 

"  In  all  the  arts,"  he  adds,  "  the  artist  can  only 
reflect  his  own  soul.  His  work,  no  matter  how  it 
may  be  dressed  up,  is  of  necessity  contemporary 
with  himself,  being  the  reflection  of  his  own  mind. 
What  do  we  admire  in  the  '  Divine  Comedy  '  unless 
it  be  the  great  soul  of  Dante  ?  And  the  marbles  of 
Michael  Angelo,  what  do  they  represent  to  us  that 
is  at  all  extraordinary  unless  it  be  Michael  Angelo 
himself  ?  The  artist  either  communicates  his  own 
life  to  his  creations,  or  else  merely  whittles  out 
puppets  and  dresses  up  dolls." 

What  a  torrent  of  paradoxes  and  irreverencei  f 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  299 

But  boldness  in  a  young  man  is  not  displeasing  to  me. 
Gelis  gets  up  from  his  chair  and  sits  down  again.  I 
know  perfectly  well  what  is  worrying  him,  and  whom 
he  is  waiting  for.  And  now  he  begins  to  talk  to  me 
about  his  being  able  to  make  fifteen  hundred  francs 
a  year,  to  which  he  can  add  the  revenue  he  derives 
from  a  little  property  that  he  has  inherited — two 
thousand  francs  a  year  or  more.  And  I  am  not  in  the 
least  deceived  as  to  the  purpose  of  these  confidences 
on  his  part.  I  know  perfectly  well  that  he  is  only 
making  his  little  financial  statements  in  order  to 
persuade  me  that  he  is  comfortably  circumstanced, 
steady,  fond  of  home,  comparatively  independent — 
or,  to  put  the  matter  in  the  fewest  words  possible, 
able  to  marry.  Quod  erat  demonstrandum , — as  the 
geometricians  say. 

He  has  got  up  and  sat  down  just  twenty  times. 
He  now  rises  for  the  twenty-first  time  ;  and,  as  he 
has  not  been  able  to  see  Jeanne,  he  goes  away  feeling 
as  unhappy  as  possible. 

The  moment  he  has  gone,  Jeanne  comes  into  the 
City  of  Books,  under  the  pretext  of  looking  for 
Hannibal.  She  is  also  quite  unhappy ;  and  her 
voice  becomes  singularly  plaintive  as  she  calls  her  pet 
to  give  him  some  milk.  Look  at  that  sad  little  face, 
Bonnard  !  Tyrant,  gaze  upon  thy  work  !  Thou 
hast  been  able  to  keep  them  from  seeing  each  other  ; 
but  they  have  now  both  of  them  the  same  expression 


300  THE  CRIME  OF 

of  countenance,  and  thou  mayest  discern  from  that 
similarity  of  expression  that  in  spite  of  thee  they  are 
united  in  thought.  Cassandra,  be  happy  !  Bar_ 
tholo,  rejoice  !  This  is  what  it  means  to  be  a 
guardian  !  Just  see  her  kneeling  down  there  on  the 
carpet  with  Hannibal's  head  between  her  hands ! 

Yes,  caress  the  stupid  animal ! — pity  him  ! — moan 
over  him  ! — we  know  very  well,  you  little  rogue,  the 
real  cause  of  all  those  sighs  and  plaints !  Neverthe- 
less, it  makes  a  very  pretty  picture.  I  look  at  it 
for  a  long  time  ;  then,  throwing  a  glance  around  my 
library,  I  exclaim, 

"  Jeanne,  I  am  tired  of  all  those  books  ;  we  must 
sell  them." 

September  20. 

IT  is  done  ! — they  are  betrothed.  Gelis,  who  is  an 
orphan,  as  Jeanne  is,  did  not  make  his  proposal  to 
me  in  person.  He  got  one  of  his  professors,  an  old 
colleague  of  mine,  highly  esteemed  for  his  learning 
and  character,  to  come  to  me  on  his  behalf.  But 
what  a  love  messenger  !  Great  Heavens  !  A  bear, 
— not  a  bear  of  the  Pyrenees,  but  a  literary  bear, 
and  this  latter  variety  of  bear  is  much  more  ferocious 
than  the  former. 

"  Right  or  wrong  (in  my  opinion  wrong)  Gelis 
says  that  he  does  not  want  any  dowry  ;  he  takes 
your  ward  with  nothing  but  her  chemise.  Say  yes, 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  301 

and  the  thing  is  settled  !  Make  haste  about  it !  1 
want  to  show  you  two  or  three  very  curious  old 
tokens  from  Lorraine  which  I  am  sure  you  never 
saw  before." 

That  is  literally  what  he  said  to  me.  I  answered 
him  that  I  would  consult  Jeanne,  and  I  found  no 
small  pleasure  in  telling  him  that  my  ward  had  a 
dowry. 

Her  dowry — there  it  is  in  front  of  me  !  It  is 
my  library.  Henri  and  Jeanne  have  not  even  the 
faintest  suspicion  about  it ;  and  the  fact  is  I  am 
commonly  believed  to  be  much  richer  than  I  am. 
I  have  the  face  of  an  old  miser.  It  is  certainly  a 
lying  face  ;  but  its  untruthfulness  has  often  won  for 
me  a  great  deal  of  consideration.  There  is  nobody 
so  much  respected  in  this  world  as  a  stingy  rich  man. 

I  have  consulted  Jeanne, — but  what  was  the  need 
of  listening  for  her  answer  ?  It  is  done  !  They  are 
betrothed. 

It  would  ill  become  my  character  as  well  as  my 
face  to  watch  these  young  people  any  longer  for  the 
mere  purpose  of  noting  down  their  words  and 
gestures.  Noli  me  tangere : — that  is  the  maxim  for 
all  charming  love  affairs.  I  know  my  duty.  It  is  to 
respect  all  the  little  secrets  of  that  innocent  soul 
intrusted  to  me.  Let  these  children  love  each 
other  all  they  can  !  Never  a  word  of  their  fervent 
outpouring  of  mutual  confidences,  never  a  hint  of 


3o2  THE  CRIME  OF 

their  artless  self-betrayals,  will  be  set  down  in  this 
diary  by  the  old  guardian  whose  authority  was  so 
gentle  and  so  brief. 

At  all  events,  I  am  not  going  to  remain  with  my 
arms  folded  ;  and  if  they  have  their  business  to 
attend  to,  I  have  mine  also.  I  am  preparing  a 
catalogue  of  my  books,  with  a  view  to  having  them 
all  sold  at  auction.  It  is  a  task  which  saddens  and 
amuses  me  at  the  same  time.  I  linger  over  it, 
perhaps  a  good  deal  longer  than  I  ought  to  do ; 
turning  the  leaves  of  all  those  works  which  have 
become  so  familiar  to  my  thought,  to  my  touch, 
to  my  sight — even  out  of  all  necessity  and  reason. 
But  it  is  a  farewell ;  and  it  has  ever  been  in  the 
nature  of  man  to  prolong  a  farewell. 

This  ponderous  volume  here,  which  has  served  me 
so  much  for  thirty  long  years,  how  can  I  leave  it 
without  according  to  it  every  kindness  that  a  faithful 
servant  deserves  ?  And  this  one  again,  which  has 
so  often  consoled  me  by  its  wholesome  doctrines, 
must  I  not  bow  down  before  it  for  the  last  time,  as 
to  a  Master  ?  But  each  time  that  I  meet  with  a 
volume  which  ever  led  me  into  error,  which  ever 
afflicted  me  with  false  dates,  omissions,  lies,  and 
other  plagues  of  the  archaeologist,  I  say  to  it  with 
bitter  joy  :  "  Go  !  impostor,  traitor,  false-witness  ! 
flee  thou  far  away  from  me  for  ever  ; — vade  retro  ! 
all  absurdly  covered  with  gold  as  thou  art !  and  I 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  303 

pray  it  may  befall  thee — thanks  to  thy  usurped 
reputation  and  thy  comely  morocco  attire — to  take 
thy  place  in  the  cabinet  of  some  banker-bibliomaniac, 
whom  thou  wilt  never  be  able  to  seduce  as  thou 
hast  seduced  me,  because  he  will  never  read  one 
single  line  of  thee." 

I  laid  aside  some  books  I  must  always  keep — those 
books  which  were  given  to  me  as  souvenirs.  As  I 
placed  among  them  the  manuscript  of  the  "  Golden 
Legend,"  I  could  not  but  kiss  it  in  memory  of 
Madame  Trepof,  who  remained  grateful  to  me  in 
spite  of  her  high  position  and  all  her  wealth,  and  who 
became  my  benefactress  merely  to  prove  to  me  that 
she  felt  I  had  once  done  her  a  kindness.  .  .  .  Thus  I 
had  made  a  reserve.  It  was  then  that,  for  the  first 
time,  I  felt  myself  inclined  to  commit  a  deliberate 
crime.  All  through  that  night  I  was  strongly 
tempted  ;  by  morning  the  temptation  had  become 
irresistible.  Everybody  else  in  the  house  was  still 
asleep.  I  got  out  of  bed  and  stole  softly  from  my 
room. 

Ye  powers  of  darkness  !  ye  phantoms  of  the  night  ! 
if  while  lingering  within  my  home  after  the  crowing 
of  the  cock,  you  saw  me  stealing  about  on  tiptoe  in 
the  City  of  Books,  you  certainly  never  cried  out,  as 
Madame  Trepof  did  at  Naples,  "  That  old  man  has  a 
good-natured  round  back  !  "  I  entered  the  library 
Hannibal,  with  his  tail  perpendicularly  erected,  came 


THE  CRIME  OF 

to  rub  himself  against  my  legs  and  purr.  I  seized  a 
volume  from  its  shelf,  some  venerable  Gothic  text  or 
some  noble  poet  of  the  Renaissance — the  jewel,  the 
treasure  which  I  had  been  dreaming  about  all  night> 
I  seized  it  and  slipped  it  away  into  the  very  bottom 
of  the  closet  which  I  had  reserved  for  those  books  I 
intended  to  retain,  and  which  soon  became  ful 
almost  to  bursting.  It  is  horrible  to  relate  :  I  was 
stealing  the  dowry  of  Jeanne  !  And  when  the 
crime  had  been  consummated  I  set  myself  again 
sturdily  to  the  task  of  cataloguing,  until  Jeanne 
came  to  consult  me  in  regard  to  something  about  a 
dress  or  a  trousseau.  I  could  not  possibly  under- 
stand just  what  she  was  talking  about,  through  my 
total  ignorance  of  the  current  vocabulary  of  dress- 
making and  linen-drapery.  Ah  !  if  a  bride  of  the 
fourteenth  century  had  come  to  talk  to  me  about 
the  apparel  of  her  epoch,  then,  indeed,  I  should 
have  been  able  to  understand  her  language  !  But 
Jeanne  does  not  belong  to  my  time,  and  I  have 
to  send  her  to  Madame  de  Gabry,  who  on  this 
important  occasion  will  take  the  place  of  her  mother. 
.  .  .  Night  has  come  !  Leaning  from  the  window, 
we  gaze  at  the  vast  sombre  stretch  of  the  city  below 
us,  pierced  with  multitudinous  points  of  light. 
Jeanne  presses  her  hand  to  her  forehead  as  she 
leans  upon  the  window-bar,  and  seems  a  little  sad. 
And  I  say  to  myself  as  I  watch  her  :  All  changes, 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  305 

even  the  most  longed  for,  have  their  melancholy ; 
for  what  we  leave  behind  us  is  a  part  of  ourselves : 
we  must  die  to  one  life  before  we  can  enter  into 
another ! 

And  as  if  answering  my  thought,  the  young  girl 
murmurs  to  me, 

"  My  guardian,  I  am  so  happy  ;  and  still  I  feel 
as  if  I  wanted  to  cry  1  " 


THE  LAST  PAGE 

August  21,  1869. 

PAGE  eighty-seven.  .  .  .  Only  twenty  lines  more 
and  I  shall  have  finished  my  book  about  insects 
and  flowers.  Page  eighty-seventh  and  last.  .  .  . 
"  As  we  have  already  seen,  the  visits  of  insects  are  of 
the  utmost  importance  to  plants  ;  since  their  duty  is  to 
carry  to  the  -pistils  the  pollen  of  the  stamens.  It  seems 
also  that  the  flower  itself  is  arranged  and  made  attrac- 
tive for  the  purpose  of  inviting  this  nuptial  visit.  1 
think  1  have  been  able  to  show  that  the  nectary  of  the 
plant  distils  a  sugary  liquid  which  attracts  the  insect 
and  obliges  it  to  aid  unconsciously  in  the  work  of  direct 
or  cross  fertilisation.  The  last  method  of  fertilisation 
is  the  more  common.  I  have  shown  that  flowers  are 
coloured,  and,  perfumed  so  as  to  attract  insects,  and 
interiorly  so  constructed  as  to  offer  those  visitors  such 
a  mode  of  access  that  they  cannot  penetrate  into  the 
corolla  without  depositing  upon  the  stigma  the  pollen 
with  which  they  have  been  covered.  My  most  vene- 
rated master  Sprengel  observes  in  regard  to  that  fin* 

down  which  lines  the  corolla  of  the  wood-geranium  : 

306 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  307 

'  The  wise  Author  of  Nature  has  never  created,  a  single 
useless  hair  I '  I  say  in  my  turn  :  If  that  Lily  of 
the  F alley  whereof  the  Gospel  makes  mention  is  more 
richly  clad  than  King  Solomon  in  all  his  glory,  its 
mantle  of  purple  is  a  wedding-garment,  and  that  rich 
apparel  is  necessary  to  the  perpetuation  of  the  species.* 
"  BROLLES,  August  21,  1869." 

Brolles  !  My  house  is  the  last  one  you  pass  in  the 
single  street  of  the  village,  as  you  go  to  the  woods. 
It  is  a  gabled  house  with  a  slate  roof,  which  takes 
iridescent  tints  in  the  sun  like  a  pigeon's  breast. 
The  weather-vane  above  that  roof  has  won  more 
consideration  for  me  among  the  country  people 
than  all  my  works  upon  history  and  philology. 
There  is  not  a  single  child  who  does  not  know 
Monsieur  Bonnard's  weather-vane.  It  is  rusty,  and 
squeaks  very  sharply  in  the  wind.  Sometimes  it 

*  Monsieur  Sylvestre  Bonnard  was  not  aware  that  several  very 
illustrious  naturalists  were  making  researches  at  the  same  time  as 
he  in  regard  to  the  relation  between  insects  and  plants.  He  was 
not  acquainted  with  the  labours  of  Darwin,  with  those  of  Dr.  Her- 
mann Miiller,  nor  with  the  observations  of  Sir  John  Lubbock.  It 
is  worthy  of  note  that  the  conclusions  of  Monsieur  Sylvestre  Bonnard 
are  very  nearly  similar  to  those  reached  by  the  three  scientists  above 
mentioned.  Less  important,  but  perhaps  equally  interesting,  it 
the  fact  that  Sir  John  Lubbock  is,  like  Monsieur  Bonnard,  an  archae- 
ologist who  began  to  devote  himself  only  late  in  life  to  the  natura 
tciences. — Note  by  the  French  Editor. 


3o8  THE  CRIME  OF 

refuses  to  do  any  work  at  all — just  like  Therese,  who 
now  allows  herself  to  be  assisted  by  a  young  peasant 
girl — though  she  grumbles  a  good  deal  about  it. 
The  house  is  not  large,  but  I  am  very  comfortable 
in  it.  My  room  has  two  windows,  and  gets  the  sun 
in  the  morning.  The  children's  room  is  upstairs. 
Jeanne  and  Henri  come  twice  a  year  to  occupy  it. 

Little  Sylvestre's  cradle  used  to  be  in  it.  He  was 
a  very  pretty  child,  but  very  pale.  When  he  used  to 
play  on  the  grass,  his  mother  would  watch  him  very 
anxiously  ;  and  every  little  while  she  would  stop  her 
sewing  in  order  to  take  him  upon  her  lap.  The  poor 
little  fellow  never  wanted  to  go  to  sleep.  He  used 
to  say  that  when  he  was  asleep  he  would  go  away, 
very  far  away,  to  some  place  where  it  was  all  dark, 
and  where  he  saw  things  that  made  him  afraid- 
things  he  never  wanted  to  see  again. 

Then  his  mother  would  call  me,  and  I  would  sit 
down  beside  his  cradle.  He  would  take  one  of 
my  fingers  into  his  little  dry  warm  hand,  and  say 
to  me, 

"  Godfather,  you  must  tell  me  a  story." 

Then  I  would  tell  him  all  kinds  of  stories,  which 
he  would  listen  to  very  seriously.  They  all  in- 
terested him,  but  there  was  one  especially  which 
filled  his  little  soul  with  delight.  It  was  "The 
Blue  Bird."  Whenever  I  finished  that,  he  would 
gay  to  me,  "  Tell  it  again  !  tell  it  again  !  "  And  I 


SYLVESTRE  BONNARD  309 

would  tell  it  again  until  his  little  pale  blue-veined 
head  sank  back  upon  the  pillow  in  slumber. 

The  doctor  used  to  answer  all  our  questions  bjr 
saying, 

"  There  is  nothing  extraordinary  the  matter  with 
him  !  " 

No !  There  was  nothing  extraordinary  the 
matter  with  little  Sylvestre.  One  evening  last 
year  his  father  called  me. 

"  Come,"  he  said.  *'  the  little  one  is  still  worse." 

I  approached  the  cradle  over  which  the  mother 
hung  motionless,  as  if  tied  down  above  it  by  all  the 
powers  of  her  soul. 

Little  Sylvestre  turned  his  eyes  towards  me ; 
their  pupils  had  already  rolled  up  beneath  his 
eyelids,  and  could  not  descend  again. 

"  Godfather,"  he  said,  "  you  are  not  to  tell  me 
any  more  stories." 

No,  I  was  not  to  tell  him  any  more  stories  ! 

Poor  Jeanne  ! — poor  mother  ! 

I  am  too  old  now  to  feel  very  deeply ;  but  how 
strangely  painful  a  mystery  is  the  death  of  a  child  1 

To-day,  the  father  and  mother  have  come  to  pass 
six  weeks  under  the  old  man's  roof.  I  see  them  now 
returning  from  the  woods,  walking  arm-in-arm. 
Jeanne  is  closely  wrapped  in  her  black  shawl,  and 
Henri  wears  a  crape  band  on  his  straw  hat ;  but  they 

x 


3io  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD 

arc  both  of  them  radiant  with  youth,  and  they  smile 
very  sweetly  at  each  other.  They  smile  at  the 
earth  which  sustains  them  ;  they  smile  at  the  air 
which  bathes  them  ;  they  smile  at  the  light  which 
each  one  sees  in  the  eyes  of  the  other.  From  my 
window  I  wave  my  handkerchief  at  them, — and  they 
smile  at  my  old  age. 

Jeanne  comes  running  lightly  up  the  stairs  ;  she 
kisses  me,  and  then  whispers  in  my  ear  something 
which  I  divine  rather  than  hear.  And  I  make 
answer  to  her  :  "  May  God's  blessing  be  with  you, 
Jeanne,  and  with  your  husband,  and  with  your 
children,  and  with  your  children's  children  for 
ever  i  "  .  .  .  Et  nunc  dimittis  servum  tuum,  Domini  / 


THE   END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Book  Slip-35m-7,'63(D863484)4280 

m 


UCLA-College  Library 

PQ  2254  C86E5h  1918a 


L  005  690  232  3 


College 
Library 


P 


-  I9l8a 


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